


Anything Goes

by kavekavekav



Series: Hope Is A Heartache [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Universe - No Main Quest, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, Eventual Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Self-Medication, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22466338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kavekavekav/pseuds/kavekavekav
Summary: Running from his ghosts, Nate finds a place for himself in a small, crime-ridden town of Goodneighbor. It’s not exactly paradise, far from it, but it has it’s advantages; a steady supply of chems and the town’s own Mayor, John Hancock.TL;DR Sole Survivor is the only one to survive (duh) and after waking up he has to make a living for himself. No dead spouse, no missing son shit here.
Relationships: John Hancock/Male Sole Survivor, John Hancock/Sole Survivor (Fallout)
Series: Hope Is A Heartache [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712839
Comments: 44
Kudos: 142





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Cole Porter’s song.
> 
> Inspiration for this fic was that little note for Hancock's voice actor that says something like, "A person you're desperately in love with approaches you to ask a question." I mean, come on!

Half a year of full-time working elbow-deep in irradiated plant and fungal residue increased Nate’s importance on the chem market in all central settlements within the borders of the Commonwealth. On the downside, it also left his house and clothes smelling strongly of ammonia and a peaty-like odor that no amount of Abraxo Cleaner could remove.   
  
It isn’t by any means a particularly unpleasant smell, hell, in the post-war world it’s practically a perfume, considering the millennial layer of dirt and decay coating every god-forsaken inch of the Commonwealth.   
  
And no, despite what McCready is so fond of saying, you can never really get accustomed to the stench of days-old urine and vomit.  
  
However, after settling for good in Bobbi’s vacated warehouse, living with the intermittent power supply, shitty water pressure and constant creaking of corroded pipes became if not easier, then at least bearable. But hey, at last, Nate’s got a working sink and a box of scented soap, a luxury only dirty money can buy these days. Well, dirty money _and_ being the closest friend of the Mayor.   
  
Overall, Nate considers himself lucky. The chems bring more money than any honest work could and the supplies are easy enough to gather, especially with Codsworth’s assistance.   
  
On the slow days, such as today, the Mister Handy is content to bustle around the rooms, clearing out the rubble, keeping the house clean. With his help, their new home stays winter-proofed and livable, even if the water and sewer connections need some further maintenance.  
  
“Mr. Nate,” Codsworth’s tinny voice comes from the first floor. “The bathroom is as clean as it can get,” he frets. “If only I had a few boxes of Abraxo left.”  
  
Nate wipes his hands on the rag and hangs it over the table to dry. He counts the vials of Stimpacks, leaves five on the side for himself, then packs the rest into two ragged cardboard boxes labeled _MAROWSKI_ and _AMARI,_ respectively.   
  
“I’ll stop by Daisy’s after I am done,” he yells back, taking the box downstairs. “We’ll see if she’s got any.”  
  
“Oh, Sir,” Codsworth whirls around. His eye-receptors shiny and polished, all fixed on Nate, watching him passively as he places the boxes near the door. “That would be wonderful! Perhaps you could ask Mr. Mayor as well?”  
  
Nate stumbles, one foot caught on the threshold, half-way into the bathroom. Clever robot. “Perhaps I will if he’s not too busy.”  
  
“I do appreciate it, Mr. Nate.”  
  
“I know you do Codsworth, I know you do.”  
  
The makeshift bathroom consists of a single sink, battered ceramic toilet bowl, steel shelf and a single bulb swinging low on a wire, flickering with a dull, yellow light. It’s a far cry from the apartment Nate lived in after retiring, but it’s home. It has to be.  
  
The tap screeches loudly, spitting out an uneven stream of water, almost lukewarm, and Nate makes haste to clean himself with a washcloth before the water temperature changes and either freezes him to the bone or scorches him to death.   
  
When he’s done, his skin is rubbed raw and red, just like he likes it. He wipes his face and comes eye to eye with a chipped mirror and an image of a man he could barely recognize as himself on better days. He does his best to shave, freshen himself up, squints at his reflection some more. But nothing can hide the bags under his eyes and a telltale redness on his sclera from his favorite past time activity since the discharge, back in 2075.  
  
“Mr. Nate, have you heard,” Codsworth calls out from somewhere around the warehouse. Judging from the noise, somewhere nearby, maybe kitchenette. “Mr. Travis forecasts a storm this weekend, how dreadful, please, do take an umbrella, just in case.”  
  
When Nate stumbled upon Codsworth it was plain to see that his core programming required updating or at least some sort of maintenance. Nate is not a mechanic, and all his hacking abilities include only what he has taught himself from the magazines or any helpful advice Nicky saw fit to give. That’s to say, Codsworth runs sorely on his own willpower and an occasional checkup, courtesy of Mel, therefore his reactions to the post-war reality seem to be a bit _unpredictable_.  
  
“I don’t think an umbrella will be useful,” Nate explains for the third time this month, dressing up in a fresh pair of clothes. Stepping into the main room, he tugs a bomber jacket over his shirt. He nicked it off a dead Brotherhood of Steel soldier last winter and wore it ever since. It needs some mending, but it’s sturdy and warm. An incredibly lucky find. “It’s... acid rain, Codsworth.”  
  
“Oh, indeed. You’d better stay home then, sir. I’ll make something tasty for dinner. A steak with gravy, perhaps?”  
  
“I’ll be fine.” Even with the serum at its end, Lorenzo’s blood still flows through Nate's veins as steady as his own. He’s taken it only twice since he freed Cabot senior out of the Asylum, mostly out of curiosity than any actual need. Undiluted, it’s really potent, but it’d be a good idea to stock up on it, just in case. “I have a medicine for it, remember? A serum, like aqueous iodine?”  
  
“From that Lorenzo fellow? I do remember now. A fine man, yes, very smartly dressed. Will you be visiting him soon?”  
  
“I’ll set off tonight, it’d be a short hike. I’ll keep an eye out for some detergents on the way.”  
  
“Sir, you are a God-sent, you truly are!”  
  
Nate picks up the boxes, one on top of the other. “I’ll be heading out,” he says, checking the name on the first package. Amari. The Memory Den it is. “See you later, Cods.”  
  
“Take care, sir.”  
  
The rusty hinges screech, and the door closes after Nate. He doesn’t lock it, people know better than to rob Hancock’s friend. That and they rather stay out of the way of the Mister Handy and his flamethrower. Not to mention Nate’s reputation. He did, after all, shot a man down first thing after walking into Goodneighbor - batterd and high on Psycho.  
  
The streets are mostly empty this time of the morning. It’s too early for the shops to open and most of the party-goers are already resting before the night. Only the guardsmen remain, taking turns with checking the perimeter.  
  
There are a few newcomers near the main gate though, at any time, night or day. Now, with the Hangman’s Alley under the Minutemen’s command, Goodneighbor’s busy with even more traders and visitors.  
  
One of the new drifters catches Nate’s eye. Blond, clean hair and a wide, toothy grin. A hint of blue collar peeking out of his checkered shirt. A vault dweller. The guy notices Nate's gaze on him and sends him a wink. Nate smiles back. It’s rare to see another dweller out in the Commonwealth, especially in Goodneighbor. Not exactly a first choice for some.  
  
A mercenary woman Nate remembers seeing around glances at him in passing, before snubbing her cigarette on the wall. She grabs the vaultie by his shirt and hisses as soon as Nate is out of sight.  
  
“Don’t even think ‘bout it. Hancock’s gonna kill ya, kid.”   
  
Nate snorts to himself. Whatever the guy has done, Nate doubts it’d make Hancock even remotely angry.   
  
After the initial mishap with Bobbi, Hancock took Nate under his wings, showed him the ropes. While they traveled together, Hancock seemed to settle into his own skin, unwind a bit. He was always a relaxed and easygoing person, but now even more so. It was Fahrenheit people should be afraid of.  
  
Deep in his thoughts, Nate passes by the Third Rail, stepping to the side to avoid a sizable puddle of blood. It drips down the sewer grate, mixing with mud and dirt. The alley in front of the Mind Den fares slightly better. It looks freshly swept, most likely Kent’s work. The huge, dirty signboard is turned off for the day and without the red shine, the building looks cold and uninviting.   
  
Nate pushes the door open with his arm, the old paint leaves small, red flakes on the material of his jacket, but he pays it no mind. Both the entrance hall and the main room appear to be abandoned, empty, save for the constant humming of the memory loungers. The double settee in the middle sits unoccupied, and all the doors are locked.

A thin, dimmed light reaches out from the basement and Nate follows it, down the creaky stairs. The overwhelming stench of dust assaults Nate’s senses and he scrunches his nose in a vain attempt of blocking the smell. He sneezes violently, holding the boxes tightly to his chest.  
  
“Oh, Nathaniel,” Dr. Amari’s voice reaches him before he has a chance of stepping inside the basement. A second later a familiar face pops up in the doorway to greet him. “Bless you.”  
  
“Thank you,” Nate sniffs, letting her take one of the boxes from his hands.   
  
Immediately, she sheds off her gloves and counts the chems until she’s satisfied. Nate does his best not to stare at the mechanical components scattered around the desk. The less he knows, the better.  
  
“No, thank _you_ ,” Amari says absentmindedly, placing the box down on top of a chair. The old leather puffs and screeches under the sudden weight. “A few more than I was expecting.”  
  
“Aster blessed us with a shipment of quality antiseptic this week, all the way from the island. It’s not pre-war, but what really is, these days?” He doesn’t intend for it to come out so defeated. It’s just... some days, it’s harder to believe everything that happened to him since he woke up wasn’t a chem-induced nightmare.  
  
Amari glances back at Nate, a pitying look settling on her face. With a deep sigh, she fishes out a syringe of Med-X from the pocket of her coat and pushes it into his free hand. “Shame you decided to waste your skills working for Marowski, of all people in this town,” she says, watching him as he hides the chem safely in his sash. “Not that I have something against the man. Besides the obvious.”  
  
Nate slides his fingers down the syringe through the smooth material of his sash. It’s been three weeks now since he had the occasion of indulging himself. Pre-war chems, like pre-war everything, are as rare as they are expensive, and chems that cannot be manufactured by using common ingredients are one of the most scarce.  
  
Finally noticing Amari’s eyes on himself, Nate shrugs. “It pays well.” __  
  
__And it does, especially around here. Chem trade, mercenary work and medicine; and Nate’s neither a doctor nor particularly good with self-preservation, but he can slap some plants together in a syringe so the choice was easy to make. He doesn’t mind working double either. Marowski’s not stingy and Amari’s covered ‘by the State’, which means more caps for Nate. Marowski not exactly happy about that, but he’s not in a position to complain. Besides, the demand is as high as ever and the caps flow remains steady. And steady is what Nate desperately needs right now.  
  
“Well, I’ll be going,” he says, glancing at the remaining box. “No rest for the wicked.”  
  
Amari puts the gloves back on, the worn latex slapping against her wrist. She opens her mouth, then closes it, changing her mind. “I’ll see you next week,” she offers eventually, returning to her work.  
  
Short of one box and about five pounds lighter, Nate dashes up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. He pushes the door open with relief, taking a deep breath to clear his sinuses, immediately grimacing at the smell of rot that reaches him from the nearest alley. Keeping his eyes from straying there, he follows down the road to the Hotel Rexford.  
  
The door is left ajar, just enough for Nate to step inside. He makes sure to walk slowly, mindful of the wet, scrubbed tiles. Living there for nearly half a year, Nate’s got closely acquainted with the hotel’s routine, whether he had wanted to or not. And whatever he could say about the establishment, the filthy rooms, terrible food and all, it was the closet thing to a home, these early days. He doesn’t miss it much, especially not the creaky, hard bed and flat, disgusting mattress that survived a few more drunken hookups that Nate thought it would.  
  
A loud, furious shout booms through the silence. It comes out of Marowski’s office and the voice, unsurprisingly, belongs to the very man. It explains the empty hall if anything and the absence of Clair and Fred from the lobby. The noise rings louder the closer Nate gets to the office and by the time he passes the reception, it’s almost unbearable, even through the closed door.   
  
Slavin doesn’t occupy his usual place. Instead, he leans against the wall by the staircase, face twisted in a scowl. When he notices Nate, he nods, taking a drag of his cigarette.  
  
“Delivery,” Nate says, catching the guard’s eye. “Or is it a bad time?”  
  
Slavin shakes his head. He puffs the smoke through his nose, takes his time. “You’ll have to come back later for the caps.”   
  
Nate places the box on the stairs. He chances a look at the door, just as a head-splitting crash of something fragile shattering against the wall cuts through the constant cursing.  
  
“Right,” Nate stretches out the world, rolls it over his tongue. “Guess I’ll have to.” He turns to leave, but Slavin’s voice halts him.  
  
“Don’t worry, you’ll get paid extra for this, as promised. Marowski owes you,” Slavin says and Nate's sure he doesn’t mean the chems.  
  
 _And damn right he does_ , Nate thinks to himself. A year ago this place was a dump and look at it now. Full staff, a proper chef and this hole starts to look pretty nice for a drug den turned post-war hotel. And all it took was Nate’s blood and sweat. No biggie.  
  
“Well, I live to please.”  
  
“Clearly.” The left corner of Slavin’s mouth shots up at the obvious sarcasm in Nate’s tone. “Now that you said it, I’ve heard Hancock’s been lookin’ for you.”   
  
Nate blinks, suddenly wrong-footed. “He has?”   
  
Slavin snorts, throws the fag to the ground and crushes it with his shoe. “When is he not?” He doesn’t say it with malice, just simply states it as a fact. Which, fair enough.   
  
Ever since they came back to Goodneighbor last spring, people around the town started to have certain... ideas about Hancock and Nate’s relationship. Rumors had spread, nothing too scandalous and Nate’s fine with it, the positive rep and everything. Though he knows Hancock’s not interested in him like that, the occasional flirting aside. He’s a friendly guy, it doesn’t mean anything.   
  
Nate’s not about to tell that to Slavin though.   
  
“Well, thanks for the info.” Nate waves a hand over his shoulder, then walks out of the hotel without looking back. “Be seeing you.”   
  
Nate entertains the thought of ignoring Slavin’s words for a whole second before his legs lead him across the street. When he turns the corner to the State House, the nearby guard shifts from foot to foot, looks Nate up and down.   
  
“Here to see Hancock?” 

Nate raises an eyebrow. Why else would he be here? Certainly not to play fucking chess with Fahrenheit.

“Yeah,” the guy coughs, then loudly clears his throat. “Stupid question. He’s upstairs.” 

Hancock’s always upstairs, and if he’s not, then he’s lounging on Nate’s couch, down in the basement. And it that case, Nate wouldn’t be looking for him, now, would he?

With the hand that’s not currently holding a submachine gun, the guard pushes down on the handle, holds the door open for Nate so he can squeeze himself in. As soon as Nate gets inside, he’s greeted with a familiar muted echo of a conversation being held upstairs. He can hear Hancock’s voice, clear as a bell, and another, slightly muffled. That one he cannot place.

Nate glances back at the guard and the man shrugs, mouths, “business.”

“Ah,” Nate whispers back. 

Business, around these parts, can be loosely translated to an interrogation, especially as far as Hancock is concerned. So, Nate’s not at all surprised to see the other _associate_ face down on the floor, when he reaches Hancock’s office.

Hancock stands over the man, with his back turned to the entryway, twirling a knife in his hand. The serrated edges of the blade gleam dangerously in the sharp light. On his left, Fahrenheit keeps the man flattened to the ground, digging her foot deeper into his back.

“Didn’t I tell Ernie what’s gonna happen if he keeps pushing me? ‘Cause I sure thought I was bein’ clear the last time I saw ya, huh?”

Judging from the dirty, yellow suit, Hancock’s business partner has to be a Triggerman. When he lets out a gasp, it’s breathy and hoarse. “L-look, Hancock, you-- Argh!”

Fahrenheit removes her foot then slams it back, this time on the Triggerman’s hand. The bone in his arm breaks with a sickening crack.

Nate swallows. He can only imagine the pointy smile stretching Hancock’s lips as he watches.

Hancock hums, a small, pleased noise that turns into a low growl when he speaks. “Why don’t you scram back to the Downs and remind your owner to watch it? Think you can do that for your old pal?”

As soon as he’s freed, the Triggerman scrambles to his feet, face wet and clammy from sweat, holding his broken arm to his chest, as if afraid someone’s going rip it from him. He doesn’t wait for anyone’s permission, just takes off, rushing past Nate, elbowing him in his hurry and all but jumping out of the door. 

Hancock’s bemused laugh rings through the silence just as Fahrenheit raises her head and meets Nate’s eyes over Hancock’s shoulder. 

“Vaultie.” 

It’s more of a warning than a greeting, the way she says it. But it catches Hancock’s attention all the same, and the ghoul turns on his heel to face Nate, a wide, welcoming grin spreading over his face.

“Sunshine,” Hancock purrs, breaking the distance between them in a short stride. His hands fall on Nate’s shoulders, palms warm through all the layers of clothing.

His husky voice does some incredibly weird things to Nate’s insides and he has to force the answering smile. “You wanted to see me?"

Fahrenheit groans, grabs her flamethrower in both hands and leaves without another comment. Not an unusual occurrence, that.

“Sure did,” Hancock says but doesn’t offer an explanation. One of his hands slides lower, to Nate’s forearm. With an amused huff, he picks at the material there, brushes off the specks of dried, red paint from the sleeve. “Working hard, heh?” 

“Don’t I always?” 

Hancock’s chuckle breaks on a hum. He doesn’t take his hands off Nate, sliding one of them slowly around his shoulders, a steady, comforting weight. “Been doin’ rounds?” He chances, like he doesn’t know Nate’s every step, as if he even needs to ask. “Why don’t you take a breather? Relax a little.”

At the change in Hancock’s tone, Nate's heart jumps to his throat. He swallows. “Oh?”

“I am thinking whiskey and Jet,” Hancock murmurs, then slaps Nate in the back, encouragingly. “How ‘bout that?”

Nate finds himself returning the smile. “Make that Med-X and I am in.”

Hancock laughs, short and sharp. “I’ll do ya one better, bother,” he promises, eyes shining with mischief. “Come on up.”

With his arm around Nate’s shoulders, Hancock leads him upstairs, then down the hallway to his bedroom. It’s a large place, though more of a second office than an actual room. There’s no bed, just a pair of old, ratty couches.

Nate sits on the one closer to the window. The saggy foam gives under him, sinking him deeper. Meanwhile, Hancock rummages around his shelves, opening and closing the drawers, muttering under his breath until he locates his sought treasure.

“The good stuff,“ he exclaims, waving an old bottle in front of Nate. The half-torn label promises whiskey, but it could be anything from moonshine to paint stripper. He takes two glasses, looks them over and when he deems them worthy, he pours two fingers into both, adds a quarter of Nuka-Cola in Nate’s, to kill the taste. “There ya go.” 

When Nate reaches to take the offered drink their hands meet briefly. The unexpected touch sends a jolt down his spine. “Thank you,” he mutters, taking the glass. His hand tingles, scorching, persistent. _Distracting_. He downs half of his whiskey in one go then promptly chokes as the liquor burns down his throat.

“Whoa, slow down, brother,” Hancock chuckles, pries the glass out of Nate’s hand so he doesn’t slosh it over his legs. “Rough day?”

A strong burning sensation gives Nate a plausible excuse for the sour grimace he makes. Hancock takes it as an agreement. Reaching behind Nate, he places the glass on the table, next to his own, untouched drink. With his freed hand, he pulls out a small, translucent bottle, made of dark-brown glass and balances it on Nate’s thigh. 

“Look what I got ya,” he says, with a smile that turns positively wicked the longer Nate stares at the gift. Hancock chuckles, soft and pleased at Nate’s awed expression.

Nate makes a noise, something between shock and delight. He catches the bottle in both hands, gently, so it doesn’t break. 

_Day Tripper_ , the age-bleached label says. Day fucking Tripper. Nate’s eyes almost pop out of his skull for the intense way he stares at the best chem left in this whole fucked up world. Nate’s been given a prescription for it after his discharge. It was the only thing keeping him on his feet, and while not exactly an antidepressant it did wonders for Nate’s mental health. 

With shaky hands, Nate unscrews the cap, the plastic snaps open. He takes out one blue pill and swallows it dry. 

Hancock flops in the middle of the couch, leaving barely any space between them. He watches Nate through half-lidded eyes. “Take your time.” 

Nate wants to say, ‘oh, I am definitely going to,’ but the chem is kicking in and he can only hum in response.

“I need to finish a few things but I’ll be done in an hour or so. Why don’t you wait for me here?”

It’s tempting. The couch seems so soft and inviting now, its color more vibrant. The syrupy aftertaste of whiskey-and-cola spreads around Nate’s mouth, sticky and sweet. But he shakes his head. “I need to stop by Cabots’.”

“Alright,” Hancock shrugs easily, reaches for his drink. He takes a sip, twirls the glass in his hand. “We can go.”

Nate blinks. “We?”

Hancock hums, as if to say, ‘well, obviously’. He downs the whiskey, discards the glass. “When do you wanna go?” He asks, putting his hands behind his head. “I am down wherever.”

“After the nightfall, I suppose.”

Hancock nods a few times to show his agreement, then slaps his thighs with open palms, startling Nate. “S’good then. We’ve a coupla hours yet.”

Nate winces apologetically. “I promised Codsworth I would visit Daisy.” 

“That’s ‘bout the Abraxos again?” Hancock waves his hand dismissively. “Come on, I told ya, I can get your robot a crate of those.”

He did. It’s a surprise really, that Codsworth didn’t take him up on that offer yet. 

“You’ve done enough for me John, I can’t ask you for stupid shit like this.”

Hancock’s lips curl with open pleasure at the sound of his name on Nate’s lips. He likes it when Nate calls him by his first name - not a lot of people do - so Nate makes sure to use it as often as possible, just because he can.

“It’s important to you,” Hancock mumbles, matter-of-factly, “so it’s important to me.”

“If you put this that way.” Nate’s cheeks grow red. It’s from the whiskey, he tells himself. “Thank you.”

“I’ll tell someone to haul it over.” Hancock leans back on the couch, puts his feet on the desk, careful not to topple the glasses. “Tell you what,” he says, reaching for his pocket and pulling out a Jet. “Why don’t I ask Fahr to postpone our meeting a bit?”

A bit. The keyword for, 'late enough everyone involved will inevitably forget all about it'. Fahrenheit will be thrilled. 

“I wouldn’t want to be a bad influence,” Nate argues, half-heartedly, following Hancock movements with his eyes. 

Hancock removes the cap with his teeth. “You couldn’t be if you tried, sunshine.” He grins, bites down on the mouthpiece and closes his lips around it, breathes in, long and deep. “It’s nothin’ important anyways,” he huffs on an exhale, letting out a cloud of thick, rubbery smoke. “Trade stuff.”

Nate shrugs with one arm. Not his business, really. “I am sure Fahrenheit would disagree.” Still, he takes the offered Jet without a complaint. After all, he’s never been the one to say ‘no’ to fun.

“Don’t you worry your pretty, little head ‘bout it,” Hancock says, nudges Nate’s thigh with his knee. “Just let go, will ya?”

Nate doesn’t need to be told twice. 

He breathes in.


	2. Chapter 2

Hancock follows closely, his arm brushes against Nate’s as they walk up to the premises of the Cabot House. He keeps looking over his shoulder, squinting at the clean, cobbled pavement with mistrust.

“Still don’t like this place,” he grumbles moving his eyes from shadow to shadow, searching for an unseen foe.

He won’t find it. The old street is one of the most secure points in the area; the patrolling sentry bot circles around the perimeter, red light blinking on and off, menacing. The slight distance from the Pickman’s Gallery is an additional warning for any raiders who might consider venturing this far from the Combat Zone. The rumors about a man in a tuxedo killing trespassers for ‘medical examination’ is another matter entirely.

“Who’s even cleaning it now, with all of ‘em dead and--” Hancock grimaces, catches himself mid-word. “Too fucking neat. Creepy.”

On principle, Nate prefers things to be easy and predictable. Hancock, on the other hand, is a hot-headed man but doesn’t like to argue, not with Nate. Though he’s used to getting the last word - and it shows - he’s willing to keep silent when it matters. Nate thinks it’s charming, not that he would ever admit it out loud.

They don’t disagree often. When they do, it’s always about the insignificant stuff; the best flavor of Mentats, (orange for Hancock, berry for Nate) the superiority of handguns against melee weapons, or the lack thereof, (handguns win, _obviously_ ) and which of Magnolia’s songs is a bigger hit (Hancock says it’s the ‘Good Neighbor’ but he’s horrendously biased).

The only time Hancock’s criticism of Nate’s decision-making was anything but _mild_ , happened to be last October, near the anniversary of the bombing. Hancock’s opinion on letting Lorenzo Cabot roam loose wasn’t and still isn’t favorable - he told Nate as much the second Nate’s hand touched the terminal. There’s no denying that the prospect of the serum keeping Nate alive and kicking longer is something appealing to him, even if he looks a bit guilty admitting it.

Nate's dislike of this place runs slightly deeper. “Everything looked like that before,” he sighs, trying to keep his voice from showing too much grief. It’s been years, the world he knew is gone, never to return. He repeats it to himself twice a day. Somehow it never gets any easier to accept.

Hancock curses under his breath and pivots to grab Nate’s forearm and squeeze a bit too tight. “Hey,” he says, lips curving into a strained smile, willing Nate to answer in kind. “Chin up, sunshine. Commonwealth has its perks, ya know.”

Hancock’s face is all scrunched up and tense. It twists that way whenever Nate gets a little too melancholic for his liking. Nate’s not suicidal, hasn’t been for months, there’s nothing for Hancock to worry about. Even so, the sight of him is makes Nate play along. “Oh,” he quips, straining to push the corners of his lips up, mirroring Hancock’s expression. “Like what?”

“Me? For one.”

John fucking Hancock, everyone. “Okay,” Nate chokes out between one burst of laughter and another. “Okay, there’s that. What else?”

“ _What else_?” Hancock repeats with faux outrage, but the mischievous glint in his abysmal eyes betrays him. “Ain’t I enough for ya, brother?” He pats his chest, right over his heart, and grunts in pain.

Nate snorts, even as the tips of his ears redden, hidden by the strands of too-long hair. Good thing he didn’t go for that haircut the last time he’s been in Diamond City. “Stop fishing for compliments John, it doesn’t suit you.”

“No love for your Mayor, eh?” Hancock hums, increasing his tempo. He passes Nate and murmurs, purposefully loud to make sure it carries. “We’ll see when you need me to get ya a discount from Wolfgang.”

“Alright, alright,” Nate huffs, catching up to. “You are very handsome,” he recites from the list of compliments he stashes in his head for moments like those. “Courageous, charismatic and, of course, intelligent. The very best Mayor there is, six years running.”

“Oh, stop. You’re making me blush,” Hancock says without looking back in a tone that speaks, ‘tell me more’.

“And you’re sweet.”

Hancock stumbles, catching himself with a hand on the wall. He whips his head back to look at Nate, eyes unreadable.

“And nice,” Nate continues, smiling. _And lovely_. But that’s not something you tell your best friend, so Nate substitutes that. “And I am lucky to have you as my friend.”

“Yeah,” Hancock rasps. He stares at Nate a little strangely, his breath comes out winded. Jet, if Nate has to guess. Somebody’s been kicking it without sharing. “Same to you.”

They’re a few steps away from the front door, so Nate decides to let this one slide. “Aw,” he mumbles instead, rummaging through his pockets with one hand. “Thanks, chuck.”

Hancock mutters something under his breath, too low for Nate to catch. Probably calling Nate out for the sarcasm. Nate doesn’t bother to tell him to speak up. He pulls out a bunch of keys with uneven pieces of tape plastered over them. Underneath, scraps of paper with numbers and names are haphazardly scribbled over in small, almost unreadable cursive. He takes one with a letter ‘C’ written with a blue pen and slips the key into the lock seamlessly, turning twice.

Before he can move to twist the knob, Hancock waves his hand around, like he wants to do it himself, but doesn’t make a move until Nate returns the keys to his pocket.

“Lemme?” Hancock’s chin juts out in the direction of the door in his universal sign for, ‘let me check this first’. He’s always kind enough to ask, even though he doesn’t really take ‘no’ for an answer. Nate doesn’t expect any danger, still, he lets Hancock do whatever he seems fit if only to skip the ‘me first, I insist’ verbal jousting.

Twirling his combat knife between his fingers, Hancock pushes the door open with his left hand, keeping the right one outstretched protectively in front of Nate. He peers inside, takes half-a-step, and tenses, eyes falling over a human silhouette on the top of the stairs, descending.

His face turns hard, then completely blank, exasperated. “It’s the bodyguard,” he mutters in a stage whisper, just as Edward Deegan comes to a halt on the last step. Hancock face sours, that little tick of his where his expression remains schooled but the corners of his lips tautens in a bastard child of a smile and a wince.

“I’ve heard the lock,” Edward drawls, looking from the knife clenched tightly in Hancock’s fist to Nate empty hands. If he still had his eyebrows, they would be raised all the way up to his hairline. “I assume you’re here to see Lorenzo?”

“Who else?” Hancock cuts in, voice cool and smooth, with a sharp edge to it. It’s rare to see him openly hostile, rarer still when it happens outside the combat, unprovoked.

Nate doesn’t pry, that’s his life motto. It served him well, all those years. It’s more useful nowadays when looking at someone a tad too long can result in a bullet between the eyes. The drawback is that most of the time he’s left in the dark, which, usually, is just fine by him. With one exception. He cannot, for the love of everything holy, fathom what reason could Hancock have to hate Edward. It just doesn’t make sense.

They might have a history, it’s plausible. Edward is a pre-war ghoul, never lived in Diamond City, but he visited often, more so before McDonough’s election. He’s a friendly guy, reasonably attractive. And Hancock gets around, why shouldn’t he, so it’s fair to assume they met at some point. Maybe they had a bad falling out? Maybe there’s more to it. It’s bizarre, because last winter, when Nate started working for Edward and by proxy for the Cabots, Hancock didn’t seem to mind the other ghoul all that much.

Nate opens his mouth to placate the situation. Unnecessary it seems, because Edward only snorts, amused. He leans on the railing, long legs stretching on the freshly scrubbed floor. At last, they don't have to wonder now, who keeps the house spotless. “He is back in the asylum, I believe he’s staying there.”

Willingly? That’s surprising. “For long?” Nate asks, chancing a look at Hancock. Sill sour-faced, but the knife is back in his holster, so there’s that.

“Hard to say,” Edward shrugs, meeting Nate’s gaze and holding it. “He’s been gone for a week. That much I know.”

“Damn it,” Nate exhales through his nose. “And there I hoped for a short hike.” He nudges Hancock’s forearm with his. Hancock’s body’s jaunt like a string, though he seems to relax. “Do you still want to go with me?”

“You kiddin’?” Hancock pushes back, pressing their arms together, shoulder to shoulder. “D’you wanna turn back home for a sec or...?”

Going back now would be a waste of time, but they can hardly leave for Parsons without a word. “At the very least we should tell Fahrenheit,” Nate sighs, checks the time on his Pip-boy. “And Codsworth.”

“You and your robot,” Hancock snorts softly, but the smile melts off his face as soon as Edward starts speaking.

“I am heading to Goodneighbor tomorrow,” he says, moving out of the hallway. He steps into the salon, takes a bottle of gin, splashes the liquor inside. “I can send a message,” he addresses Nate, “if you’d like.”

It’d save them about three hours of walking back and forth and if the weather holds, they could reach County Crossing in a very timely fashion. “Thank you, Edward--”

“Yeah, thanks, _Edward_ ,” Hancock seeps the name through his teeth like poison. “Real nice of ya.” He doesn’t sound like he means it, not at all.

Edward tilts his head, watching Hancock for a moment from the corner of his eye, without turning to face him. “Nathaniel,” he starts, completely ignoring the glib. “Would you like a drink?”

Would Nate like a drink? A free drink? They worked together for long enough, he should know better than to ask. “Thank you, I--”

“Actually, I think we should be goin’,” Hancock announces, catching Nate’s hand, just below the Pip-boy. He makes a show of looking at the time, humming and murmuring. “Yeah,” he nods, “yeah, if we want to pass by Charlestown before the sunrise.”

“Right,” Nate stresses, looking at the map on the screen. The road to Charleston is short and not particularly difficult. By morning, they should be at last in County Crossing, Hancock knows that.

Edward opens the bottle and pours a quarter of glass for himself. “Well, next time, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Hancock smiles, all teeth, and drags Nate by the hand towards the door. “Don’t wait up.”

Stupefied, Nate lets Hancock lead him out of the house. The door swings open and closes itself after them with a soft click. Neither pays much attention to it. Hancock’s grip is light but insistent, his fingers are warm and dry. Nate’s heart batters against his rib cage double-time.

“So,” Hancock clears his throat awkwardly and drops Nate’s hand. “Deegan’s a cool guy or somethin’? Heard he’s popular with the ladies.”

It’s not the weirdest conversation starter Nate’s heard from Hancock, high or sober, so he doesn’t bat an eye at the choice of subject, even if a heavy weight settles in the bottom of his stomach because of it. Still, he answers with as much composure and good-humor as he can summon. “And more than a few men, I’d guess. He’s very old-fashioned, some people like it that way.”

“Oh, ugh, do ya?” Hancock says, then quickly backpedals. “I mean, you’re pretty old-fashioned yourself.”

Nate kicks a small stone, sends it toppling into a puddle of water. “Am I?” He asks, unsure if it’s a good thing or not. Daisy has once told him, ‘you can take a man out of the ‘70s, but you can’t take the ‘70s out of a man’. He’s still almost certain that it was an insult. “Are you calling me outdated, or is that a roundabout way of asking me if I have the hots for Edward?”

Hancock makes a sound, fake retching, and Nate laughs so hard he has to stop walking. “Are you jealous?” he jokes, wiping a tear out of his eye. He feels Hancock freeze beside him and the smile slips. Oh, no. “Wait. Are _you_ interested in Edward?”

“You’re crazy,” Hancock pushes past him, doesn’t deny anything. He skips over the hole in the road, continues along the way, stepping into the dirt and grass, shoes squelching, heels sinking into the mud.

“It’s alright if you do!” Nate yells back, covering the unease under a fit of nervous laughter.

“I don’t care ‘bout your soldier-boy, _Nathaniel_.” At the sound of his full name, Nate’s rabbit-heart almost reaps through his chest. Hancock doesn’t even notice. “He ain’t my type.”

Nate shouldn’t ask, damn well he shouldn’t. But he’s a sucker for the heartache, so he does. He scrambles to follow, tugs at the edge of Hancock’s sleeve to get him to slow down. “Who is your type then?”

Hancock turns to level Nate with such a fierce glare that it would melt through a lesser man, sending him cowering behind the closest wall. Nate keeps the strained smile on his face until Hancock’s frown clears out.

Hancock sighs, long-suffering and drawn. He wipes his face with the palm of his hand, a curious habit, probably from the time he was still... well, human. It reveals his anxiety all the same. “I go for the stupid ones,” he says, deadpan, and starts walking again. “Apparently.”

Shocked into silence, Nate can only gape at Hancock’s retreating back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But Hancock, predictably, doesn’t answer. He only shakes his head, and Nate doesn’t dig anymore, even though he desperately wants to.

XXX

By the time they cross the bridge to County Crossing, their earlier discussion is forgotten, or, at last, ignored by both of them. Their good mood is back, the tension dulled by hunger and exhaustion.

“Wanna stop by?” Hancock asks when the guard tower, flanked by two windmills appears on the horizon. He’s doing it for Nate’s benefit, no doubt, since he could stand to walk an additional day or two without food or sleep. Not that he’d like it, though.

The mutfruit farm stretches over the hill, larger than it was last spring. No wonder Hancock’s made the settlement his sole suppliant of wine. It doesn’t look like much; a couple of huts, a guard tower and a bar made of the ruined building, but it’s as good a place to rest as any. The area is protected by the Minutemen militia stationed in the National Guard Training Yard, so it wouldn’t be necessary anymore to travel at night. They can make a quick stop.

“Sure, why not,” Nate shrugs like he isn’t so hungry he could eat a fucking radroach. “I could do with a drink.”

“And some steak, huh?” Hancock pats Nate’s back, steers him down the patch of a well-trodden footpath. “We could see how’s that investment paying out,” he says, pointing at the old hut with a neatly written word ‘bar’ on the wall, made with yellowish paint.

Most of the people bustle about, scattered around the plantation, already working, well before the sunrise, making the main settlement look abandoned in comparison to the farm. A couple of guards do rounds checking the perimeter, guns in hands. A trader rests by the entrance, conversing with a couple of minutemen from the nearby base.

“Fahrenheit will be glad I think,” Nate nods, watching the harvesting. Ten crates of wine lay in stacks next to a brahmin pen, ready to be shipped to Goodneighbor. “That we didn’t just wander, willy-nilly.”

Hancock tsks, bobbing his head, exasperated. “Eh, it’s always business with you, brother. Work and work and work, all the damn time.”

“We can’t all sit on our asses--”

“Said the guy who declined my job offer. I told ya, if you ditched Marowski I’d get ya enough caps you wouldn’t need to lift a finger.”

If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. And it’s not only Nate’s paranoia talking. It was a terrific opportunity, one he cursed himself for rejecting, but then, he wasn't as well acquainted with Hancock as he is now; he wasn’t sure if he could trust him not to be fickle. Besides, it’d be too much like being a kept-boy and most certainly wouldn’t help with all these idiotic rumors. Hancock doesn’t mind them, doesn’t correct any assumption. He’s amused by it, well, at least one of them is.

“Don’t start with that.” It’s an argument they had several times already. “You’re getting half of everything I make anyways.”

“But I want all of it,” Hancock states, and fuck if it doesn’t sound like he’s talking about something more than a batch of chems.

It sends shivers down Nate’s spine. He's sure Hancock is joking, that it’s all in good humor. He just... sometimes he wishes it wasn’t. “We can’t always get what we want,” he mutters, looking away, unable to hold Hancock’s gaze any longer.

Hancock sighs, drops the subjects. “Ain’t that the truth.” He yanks the door open so fast the old, rusty jambs don’t have a chance to make a sound.

The air in the small bar is heavy with the smell of lard and the not-quite-sweetness of ripe mutfruits. A beat-up couch that once upon a time might have been beige is pushed near the farthest wall. A few mismatched tables and chairs are stacked by the bar, ready for the lunch break.

“Well, damn.” The bartender, Ron Staples, whistles, standing from his stool. “Mr. Mayor in the flesh.”

“The one and only,” Hancock grins, back to his party-persona. “How’s work, brother?”

“Good, good.” Ron places two glasses on top of the counter, one after another. The thin glass clinks as it meets the worm-eaten wood. “Wine, moonshine?”

“Moonshine for me, wine for my guy over there,” Hancock announces while Nate hovers next to him, a little uncertain. What a contrast do they make - Hancock being _Hancock_ , and Nate, who doesn’t deal with people if he’s not drunk off his cups or high as hell.

“On the house.” Ron hands them their drinks and leaves the bottles on the counter, within an easy reach. “Something else I can get you?”

Hancock looks at Nate, prompting him to speak. “Food?” Nate turns his eyes to the shelf behind the counter. On it, amidst the alcoholic beverages sits a lone box of InstaMash. Better than nothing. “Anything you have on hand.”

Ron follows Nate’s gaze. “Afraid that’s all we can offer this early,” he admits apologetically. “The cook won’t be done before noon and the earliest trader from the Finches won’t be here till tomorrow.”

“That’s alright.” At this point, Nate could eat a raw tato for all he cares, and that’s saying something.

Ron reaches for the box, glancing at the hot plate near the cash register. “Give me a moment and I’ll see what I can do.”

Pre-war packaged meals are somehow easier to find than it might seem, but even when they are, people prefer to steer clear from something that’s well over two hundred years old. Unless they’re really, really hungry.

Living in a large settlement like Diamond City or Goodneighbor, surrounded by visitors and traders, it’s easy to forget about the food shortage after the harsh winter months that most of the farmsteads and smaller plantations face. Traveling outside the city is always an eye-opening experience.

Ron makes a quick job of heating up the potatoes, adding clean water to the powder, mixing it until it forms a pale grue. Then, obvious to the look of startled disgust that flashes over Hancock’s face, he serves the meal in two, chipped ceramic bowls.

With hurried words of thanks from Nate and more dissatisfied grumbling from Hancock, they take the bowls and settle to eat outside, sitting on the creaky stairs.

Nate stuffs his mouth with the stale mashed potatoes, swallowing the pulp by spoonfuls while Hancock looks like he’d rather eat the cardboard box than the dish itself. “It’s good,” Nate mutters when he’s done with his portion. The amount of chemicals in the box makes it taste almost exactly the same way it did before the war - a little plastic-y, dry as hell, but filling. He licks his spoon too.

“Nah, it ain’t,” Hancock grimaces, placing his bowl on top of Nate’s. “Have mine.”

Nate rolls his eyes, though he doesn’t oppose. “You’re so picky,” he chides before digging into the mashed mess of half-cold potatoes. It seems like being a mayor accustomed Hancock to a far better choice of food than instant purées heated up on a broken-down heat plate. Lucky him.

Hancock snorts, “and you’re not picky enough.” It’s a loaded statement, one Nate doesn’t want to encipher. After a while, Hancock stands up, wipes his hand on his pants. “Imma check with Ron ‘bout the shipment, okay?” He stuffs his hands inside his pockets. “Be right back.”

He doesn’t go far, just a few feet to the side, joining Ron on the cigarette break he’s having. Nate can’t help but watch them talk. Hancock’s voice is cheerful, booming, his posture relaxed, gestures animated. He takes a deep breath, huffing out the smoke through his nostrils.

He’s not a handsome man, not anymore at last, though if Daisy can be believed, he was a real looker before turning ghoul. But it’s not his appearance that draws people to him like moths to a flame, but his presence, the way he carries himself. Nate thought himself immune, right until he wasn’t.

Staring at his bowl, Nate polishes his second serving of potatoes with much less vigor, chasing it down with a sip of wine, bitter and strong. He holds the glass in his hand for something to busy himself with while he waits.

Eventually, Hancock takes the last drag of his cigarette and throws the bud on the ground. He outstretches his now freed hand and Ron shakes it, cementing whatever deal they’d just made.

Nate leaves the bowls and cutlery on the wooden crate near the stairs, for Ron to collect on his way and makes a move to stand up when he notices a man walking towards Hancock. Nate doesn’t hear their conversation, but from the look of it, they appear to be well acquainted.

 _One of his friends then_ , Nate thinks, more bitterly that the situation warrants for. They are just talking, and even if they weren’t, he has no claim over Hancock. They’re friends. Just friends, nothing else.

Hancock moves a bit like he’s about to turn in Nate’s direction. The man’s smile falls, he raises his head to--

“Come here often?”

Saved from the awkwardness of meeting Hancock’s eyes by an unexpected voice, Nate whirls so fast he nearly gets a whiplash. “Deacon!” He exhales, gulping the air like a fish. “What are you doing here?”

Deacon, dressed up to his head in a worn, farmer garb, squats down. “Ah, you see,” he shrugs with one arm, whisking Nate’s glass from his hand and taking a large gulp of wine. “Reconnaissance, top priority stuff, very hush-hush.”

“ _And_ the wine?”

Deacon’s answering grin is hidden by the rim of his glass, but his eyes gleam. “You know me.”

Nate does. It would be hard not to, considering the entire year Deacon spent following Nare around like a dog, spying on him, though, not very successfully. They had their ups and downs, more so after Nate refused to aid the Railroad and thus fell from Desdemona’s good graces. He and Deacon remained on much better terms. By far, Deacon happens to be the weirdest friend Nate’s ever had, and that’s counting a literal synth-detective from the ‘70s.

“Are you looking for something specific?” Nate inquires, more from politeness than any real curiosity. Besides, Deacon never spills any details.

“Yes and no,” Deacon hums then takes the last sip of the wine before starting with his theatrics. “Aw, hell, don’t stare at me like that or I’ll have to tell you everything and then we’d both be in grave danger.”

Nate snorts. Doubtfully, on both accounts. “Usual stuff?”

“Yeah. Same thing, different boss.” Carrington it is. “Speaking of bosses,” Deacon whispers conspiratorially, then adds, much louder. “Hancock, long time no see!”

Hancock makes his way over lazily. He doesn’t sit, opting instead for dropping a hand on Nate’s shoulder. “Deacon,” he returns, while his arm finds it ways around the back of Nate’s neck, smooth, casually, like it’s natural for them.

“Are you staying long?” Deacon asks, non-pulsed, balancing the empty glass on top of the bowl. “On your way to...”

“Parsons,” Nate supplies, swallowing thickly. One of these days, he’s going to have an aneurysm, he’s sure of it.

Hancock thumbs the top of Nate’s jacket, catching the zipper pull absentmindedly, sliding his finger up and down as he talks. “Nah, just for a quick break.” Each time he slides the zipper, the tip of his middle finger dips low and catches on a thin strip of bare skin above Nate’s collar.

“Yeah.” Nate points at his polished-off plate, trying not to tense, lest Hancock would think his touch is unwelcome. “And I am done now.”

Deacon lips twitch as though he’s about to say something, but he keeps quiet, for better or worse. “Well,” he settles on, “don’t let me keep you.” He jumps back to his feet and hesitates. “Eh, look,” he starts, a bit abashed. “Des asked if--”

“No.” The misconception everyone is under, that Nate’s supposed to somehow help them solve all their problems is a sham. He’s nobody’s hero - woken two hundred years in the future by mistake, because of a terminal malfunction. He shouldn't even be here. “I am sorry, Deacon, I can’t. I am not--”

The hand on Nate’s shoulder tightens, bringing him closer. Nate leans further into Hancock’s arms, grateful.

Deacon holds his hands up. “Hey, I get it. I do. She just wanted me to tell you she’s sorry for being crass. If you’d ever,” he makes a vague gesture that might mean literally anything. ”You know how to find us.”

“Yeah.” The Old North Church is just north-west of Goodneighbor, Nate's learned the way by heart. “Maybe try changing that password sometimes?” If his joke falls flat, it is understandable and neither of them make a note of it.

Deacon flashes a quick smile in response, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’ll pass it on,” he says. And he probably will, if only to create some drama. He leaves without fanfare, blending into the crowd of farmers with ease and vanishing somewhere between the mutfruit bushes.

Nate doesn’t move for a long while after that, content to seep the warmth of Hancock’s body against his own. But nothing good lasts long and sooner than Nate would like, Hancock moves away. He helps Nate up, holds his hand for a second longer than necessary.

“Alright?” He’s frowning again, fretting. He doesn’t like the reminder of the nearly botched mission at the Slocum's Joe that almost cost Nate his leg. He’s never liked Deaton much. That one fuck-up didn’t help the matter.

“Yes.” Nate ensures with all the honesty he can spare. Which isn’t much, so he quickly adds a question on his own. “How’s the trade?”

Hancock squints his eyes. “Fine,” he relents. He pushes his hands back into his pockets, fiddles with what sounds like a bottle cap or a Mentant box. “You ready?”

It’s surprising, how easily Hancock let it go. He wouldn’t, before.

It’s weird. They used to work together so nicely, falling into a quick routine, the easy banter, the flirting. And look at them now. All the words that are left unsaid, the heavy silence that falls over them whenever they are alone. The tension that grows between them, larger with every passing day.

Nate can’t shake off the feeling that the bond he shares with Hancock slowly breaks. And he recognizes whose fault it is. He tries to remember, the exact moment the line between friendship and love blurred, but there’s no memory, no conversation that leads to him falling in love with Hancock. It just happened. And Hancock might be aware, he probably is, Nate’s not one known to be subtle.

He’s also not a brave man, never was. “Ready.”

How do you tell your best friend you’re in love with him anyway? You don’t. Simple as that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Salut d'amour" means ‘Love Greeting’ and the song is played on the Classical Radio in Fallout 4. I dunno, it felt fitting.
> 
> Also I kind of really want to write the fic from Hancock’s perspective after I finish, dunno if that’s a good idea tho but it could be fun.

The heavy fog descends gradually, but in minutes it’s thick enough that the orange-and-pink setting sun blurs with the endless fields of dead grass and disappears completely from the view. The air grows dense with moisture and every breath Nate draws turns into a small cloud of mist.

If he strains his eyes enough, he can see the tips of his shoes, black and dirtied with dry blood and mud. Hancock’s faded red duster is barely visible from a step away. He’s in a hurry, but he stays within Nate’s reach.

The hope of the fog clearing out as swiftly as it has appeared is lost, barely twenty minutes into the march; if the staggering and bowling over the uneven ground could be even called a march. The patchy lawn turns more and more slippery and wet the closer they get to what appears to be a lone house or an abandoned shop. Either way, it has a roof, four intact walls, and with some luck, an open door or a window left ajar.

“Alright,” Hancock swears, slapping the palm of his hand into the wooden wall, trying to find a hole large enough to function as an entrance. “Why don’t we-- fuck. Why don’t we take a rest?”

“Oh?” Nate shuffles after Hancock, close, to not lose sight of him. He keeps his voice purposefully light, just to be contrary. “What was that you said earlier?” He pretends to think about it for a while, then snaps his fingers, ignoring Hancock’s groan. “I remember now. You said, and I quote,” he lowers his voice to a raspy drawl, a close imitation of Hancock,“ ‘it’s just fog, Nate, it’s gonna clear out right qu--’”

“Never said a thing like that.” Hancock’s grip on his knife falters. In the low-visibility, the chances of being attacked are pretty much nonexistent. But he likes to have a weapon on him at all times, just in case, so he sticks the blade between his teeth, freeing his hand so it can join the other in the search. “You gonna help me out or what?”

“I think I’d rather watch you do all th-- hell, what is this?” Nate reels, catching himself half-way down, one hand pressing against the ground for balance.

Hancock turns his head and squints in Nate’s general direction. At least Nate thinks he does, because his voice comes out louder, more clear. “You good?”

“I found something.”

“A door?”

“Uh, not really,” Nate squats, moves his palm over the surface of the unexpected obstacle. It’s freezing, the orange paint strips with the lightest touch, revealing a plain metal underneath. A couple of bars, black coal, and an ashen residue. “It’s a grill.” He shifts his hand away, ready to push himself upright when his fingers brush over something familiar, oval and equally cold, slightly damp. “And some cram!” Not one but two cans of it. He packs them into his green duffel bag, narrowly fitting them in.

“Nice,” Hancock mutters sardonically. The sound of slapping becomes more vigorous. “Now, all we gotta do is get inside.”

The building isn’t large, though finding an entrance almost completely blind proves a bit more challenging than it would be in the plain daylight. Hancock’s close to losing his patience if his continuous swearing is anything to go by. They didn’t really plan on having a break, not this close to Goodneighbor, but there they are, caught off guard and wholly unprepared.

Thankfully for Nate’s clumsiness, they don’t have to struggle for long. Taking a turn around the house, Nate stumbles, again, over an unexpected obstruction - a suitcase - sending it tumbling forward to the first step of a staircase.

Hancock grabs him by the elbow at the last moment and holds him upright. “Can’t get my eyes outta you for a sec,” he mumbles through the blade clenched tightly between his teeth. He draws the knife, holding it in front of himself so he can speak more freely. “Need me to hold your hand?”

Nate shrugs Hancock off, and for once he doesn’t offer a rebuttal. “Look,” he points instead at the staircase, stuffing his hands into his pockets, checking the content. Two glass bottles and a syringe, all safe and sound. “Do you want to check it out?”

Hancock hums. Taking a long step over the suitcase, he leans down to catch a small jar that must have fallen out when the unzipped suitcase rotated. Absentmindedly, he picks up the Rad-X and pushes it into Nate’s hand, out of habit. It’s not needed. Nate doesn’t have to worry about the radiation anymore, not with a syringe full of Lorenzo’s blood in his pocket, but it’s a nice gesture all the same.

Hancock nudges the suitcase’s lid with the tip of his shoe, but finding nothing inside, he moves on to the staircase. The wood creaks dangerously under his weight but it doesn’t break so he treads up, one step, two, three. “Sturdy,” he decides, jumping a few times in place to test the strength of the stairs further.

“Are you out of your mind?” Nate yelps as the squeaking and creaking grow more concerning. Heart in his throat, he leaps, arms outstretched, ready to tug Hancock by his collar, away from the impending danger. But nothing happens.

“That a rhetorical question or--”

“What if it collapsed?”

Hancock gives an unconcerned shrug, “it didn’t.” He waits for Nate to join him, taking another step when he’s sure Nate’s keeping up.

“But it could have,” Nate grumbles, staring at the back of Hancock hat. He tries not to get angry, but how can he not, when Hancock’s adamant to be a hypocrite. He always frets over Nate but when it comes to himself, he acts so unconcernedly.

“Then we’d find another way in,” Hancock reasons, completely misunderstanding Nate’s concern. “No biggie.”

The staircase holds them both steadily, so there’s no reason to make a scene. The door is right there, at the top of the stairs, a couple of feet away. Hancock shifts to the side, to make a room for Nate, the subject likely already forgotten.

Nate’s pulse refuses to calm down, however. “I meant you could get hurt,” he says, less stern than he intended.

“Oh,” Hancock’s grin dissolves, replaced by a look of complete blankness. It’s impossible to gauge his thoughts like that, not when he’s stone-cold sober. His words are just as confusing, when they come out, uncharacteristically soft and peculiar, “were you worried?”

Nate feels the tips of his ears burn with heat. “Shouldn’t I be?” He asks, defensive. There’s nothing wrong with being concerned when your best friend is acting stupid, now, is there?

Hancock stares at Nate for a while, so long it starts to get awkward. He recovers from his stupor eventually and a smile returns as suddenly as it’s disappeared. “It wasn’t me havin’ a close encounter with the floor _twice_ in the last five minutes. You ought to be more worried ‘bout yourself, sunshine.”

“Pot, kettle,” Nate sighs, his shoulders dropping, defeated.

Hancock shakes his head. “Not the same,” he starts but briefly hesitates. “You’re just--”

Nate waits for the rest of the sentence with growing unrest. But seconds pass, and it doesn’t come. “Just what?” He urges, strangely impatient.

“Important,” Hancock settles on, though Nate’s almost sure he meant to say something more.

 _Important_. And that coming from a God-damned mayor of the second biggest settlement in the Commonwealth. “So are you,” Nate says, adamant.

“Well, yeah,” Hancock grins, palming the back of his neck with his free hand, rubbing the muscle here, hidden under the fraying collar of his dress shirt. “Butter me up and I might just share some of the berry Mentants I’ve got from Ron.”

If Hancock expects Nate to be so easily swayed by the blunt subject change, he’s entirely right to do so. Nate snorts but doesn’t press the issue. He could, though, if he wanted to, since Hancock always shares his stash, no buttering up necessary.

“Shall we, then?” Nate points at the door, catching the relieved drop of Hancock’s arms. He’s probably not even aware that he has a tick that gives him away. Not surprising, since the only other person left alive that knows him that much is Fahrenheit, and she’s not someone he has to be guarded around.

Nate reaches for the knob, but Hancock beats him to it. The rusty handle squeaks, rattles weakly, but the door remains closed. Just their luck. Hancock doesn’t seem deterred, he sticks his fingers between the frame, trying to pry it open. It doesn’t do much good.

Nate focuses on the small, rusty lock. It’s the standard version, thee-tiered, shouldn’t be too complicated to break, even without a proper set of lock picks. “I have some--”

Always one for a more _direct_ approach, Hancock forces the door open. It's timber, weak, not reinforced, and a quick punch to the center with his shoulder rips the latch from its place.

“--bobby pins,” Nate mutters as the door swings open and bounces off the wall with a dull bang. “Really, Hancock?”

“S’faster that way,” Hancock says, stepping into the room, narrowing his eyes at the darkness. Nate turns the flash in his Pip-Boy on, directs the light over Hancock’s side.

The attic is tiny, barely any bigger than a storage, illuminated by a couple of rifts in the walls and ceiling. The stench of dust and decay that fills the space is heavy and musty, stiffing. Ripped and yellowed from age, floral tapestry peels off the walls in uneven stripes. It’s the same design Nate’s mother had in her saloon, the cheap, blue one with flowers, camellias, and roses.

“Cozy,” Hancock mutters, returning the knife to the sheath. Nate takes his eyes from the wall to see what he means. Someone’s been using the room as a home. It’s not much; a shelf, locker, and mattress covered from the view by a stack of wood and the remains of a cupboard or commode, battered beyond recognition. Satisfied with the state of their temporary hideout, Hancock takes care of the door, barricading it with the largely-intact shelf, sticking the corner under the knob. “Hope they won’t mind us crashing at their place.”

The thick layer of dust that settled over the floor hasn’t been disturbed recently, well, apart from just now. Whoever lived there hasn’t been back in months.

“If they’re even alive.”

“Maybe they relocated,” Hancock sighs, unconcerned, plopping onto the mattress, sending a cloud of dust in the air. “Why don’t ya get us some music, hmm?”

Nate grumbles, fanning the dust away. His nose itches, terribly. Nonetheless, he relents, switching the radio on as soon as he drops his duffel bag on Hancock’s legs, right in time to hear a commercial for Diamond City Surplus, curtsy of Travis Miles.

“Yeah, no,” Hancock huffs an impatient breath through his nostrils. He pushes the bag under his arm, leans on it. “No. Anything but this, please, not today.” He grimaces when Nate laughs, glowers at him until the station changes to the classical one. “Oh, yeah, that’s better.”

The first notes of Bach's Suite in E minor rift in the stillness of the room, soft and nostalgic. Before Nate can bite himself, his stupid tongue says, “trying to set up a romantic atmosphere? Why Mayor, you shouldn’t have.”

The laugh that rips out of Hancock sounds as if it’s been punched out of him. “Yeah,” he huffs, stiffly. He watches his hands, doesn’t raise his eyes to meet Nate’s. “Yeah, you saw right through me, brother.”

The song's movement shifts from the Präludium to Allemande, the sound of chirpy strings replaces the sudden muteness, making it less anxious, if only marginally. Nate winces, cursing himself inwardly. Stuck in the cramped room, with nowhere to hide, he takes off his jacket with all the nonchalance he can afford, drops in on the cleanest piece of furniture, the mattress, and gets to work, sifting through the drawers, looking for something salvageable.

After a couple of minutes and two songs later, Hancock hums, loud and inquisitive. When Nate turns to look at him, Hancock is twirling the syringe with Lorenzo’s blood. “I gotta tell ya, I am conflicted as fuck. On one hand, this sicko goes ‘round, killin’ people, Pickman-style. On the other,” he pauses, returns the syringe carefully inside the pocket of Nate’s jacket, “everything else,” he finishes with a sigh.

It’s vague, but it doesn’t take a genius to understand his meaning. Especially since the only plus side of keeping Lorenzo alive and kicking is the serum, which ensures that Nate gets to live as long, if not longer than Hancock. Nate found that prospect to be somewhat strange and unwelcome, at first. The idea of eternal torment used to scare him. It doesn’t anymore.

“I don’t want to die,” he says, easy. He can’t feel bad about his choices, he’s too broken for it.

“Good,” Hancock blinks, finally returning Nate’s gaze. “Good. I don’t want you to die either.” His mouth twists into a small grimace that could pass for a smile if it wasn’t so strained. “ And ’sides, turning you ghoul woulda been a damn waste.”

Not to mention dangerous. “Ah, I see how it is,” Nate smirks, opening another drawer, revealing a stack of yellowed documents, questionnaires, and Vault-Tech pamphlets. “You only like me for my face.”

“Your ass is pretty great too,” Hancock jibs fast. Too fast it seems, because his jaw closes with a clang, nipping the last word in half like he didn’t mean to say anything at all.

The unease grows so intense it's almost tangible. Nate grips the wood so tightly it creaks under the pressure. “Aw, thanks.” He unclenches his hand with some difficulty, then flips through the pages with feigned interest.

 _Fucking hell_ , he thinks to himself, keeping his eyes from straying in Hancock’s direction. He tries to hold his paranoia at bay, but the evidence is stark. His worst fears come true. Or well, they were true all along; he was just the last one to catch up. There’s no way Hancock’s not aware of the feelings Nate’s been harboring towards him since last summer, possibly longer. It makes sense now, why he’s stopped flirting with Nate, being a good friend that he is. He just doesn’t want to lead Nate on.

It’s a terrible moment to have this epiphany, the worst place too. The tender notes of Edward Elgar's _Salut d'amour_ flow softly, led by the heartfelt tremor of violin in a cruel joke at Nate’s expense. A love ballad, how ironic. Nate lets the radio play; anything’s better than the quietness.

Hancock doesn’t take it on himself to fill the silence either, what is there to say, anyway. Nate hears the click of a lighter, smells the tobacco and smoke. He busies himself with the task at hand, combing through the storage until he finds a bottle of purified water stashed away in the depths of the last shelf, forgotten. He takes it out, brushes off the dust and looks it over for any sign of wear. The bottle’s just slightly dented, though still factory sealed. The water appears to be perfectly edible, if somewhat stale.

Nate’s duffel bag is packed so tightly, he couldn’t fit a finger inside. It’s only the bare necessities; a bottle of Nuka-Cola, spare ammo, back-up gun, a change of clothing, two jars of herbal stimulant, cram, the Rad-X Hancock found earlier and a pack of military tape, extra strong. But there could never be enough purified water, so naturally, Nate can’t leave it behind. Besides, if they don’t find some use for it, which Nate doubts, they can eat the cram now and there’ll be just enough space cleared out.

Bottle in hand, Nate turns to let Hancock on the plan, only to stop in his track, feeling Hancock’s eyes on him, burning. He’s stretched out on the mattress, all lean waist and wiry body. A ghoul in a colonial duster shouldn’t look this good. “Are you, ugh--” Nate swallows, stumbling over his words like an absolute moron. “Are you hungry?”

Hancock stubs the butt of his cigarette on the ground, flicks it into the corner of the room. “I could eat.” He doesn’t sound thrilled at the idea, though he unzips the bag right away as Nate settles next to him on the ground.

They eat the meat cold, straight from the can with their fingers, both happy to pretend they’re too focused on the music to talk. Nate thumbs the can absently, picking at the label. The savory taste of cooked pork is immensely familiar. The nostalgia strikes him, unexpectedly.

During his service, he took food for granted, especially the processed meals like baked beans and these horrible hardtack crackers that could break your teeth if you bite them hard enough. Even on the days he spent in the front line, his worst fear was running out of ammo. It was worse after his discharge actually, amidst the protests and food shortage the grocery stores and markets sold out faster than anything else. Nothing could compare to _this,_ though.

Staying close to Goodneighbor spoiled him. He didn’t notice it until now, how good his life is, compared to the first year after he thawed out of the Vault 111.

“What’s with that face?” Hancock questions, noticing Nate’s consternation.

“I just want to go home.” And it’s not even a lie. All Nate wants is to hole up in his basement, alone, to stew in his mortification. “What?”

Hancock has that odd expression again, soft and distant. He shrugs with one arm, puts a piece of meat in his mouth as if to bid some time and when he’s done chewing he says, simply, “nothing. Me too.” He snatches a bottle of Nuka-Cola out of the bag, unscrews the bottle, wedging the tip of his blade between the cap and the bottleneck, before taking a generous gulp.

Nate swallows the last of his cram down, licks his fingers clean, sucks the gelatin and salt residue off his skin, running his tongue in long, thorough strokes until he’s positive his hands are as spotless as they can be in these circumstances. He’s snapped out of his reverie by the sound of hard coughing.

Hancock chokes on his drink, spitting the droplets over his clothes as he hacks. “Fuck, don’t-- ugh-- don’t try to breathe and drink at the same time,” he wheezes, eyes falling to Nate's hands then quickly snapping away. His chest heaves, he gulps down the air, starving for it.

“Is everything--”

“Sure, sure is,” Hancock puts the bottle down with a bit too much force. He gasps a few more times before the coughing fit eases off. “Damned thing went down the wrong pipe.” He shifts in his seat, all sharp movements and urgency, setting the front panels of his duster over his lap. “Anyways, ain’t it the time for dessert?” He pulls out a tin box then shakes it briskly, making the pills inside clatter against the metal.

What a question. “It’s always time for dessert.” Real berry Mentats, the pre-War kind with the unmatchable flavor of blueberries and artificial sweetener.

Hancock struggles with the tin, getting it open on the third try, uncharacteristically uncoordinated. True to his word he offers it to Nate first, watching with rapt attention as Nate crushes three pills to a fine powder with the blunt edge of his knife, snorting the chem through a rolled-up pamphlet.

The chem hits faster that way, lasts longer too, absorbed almost immediately into the bloodstream through the soft tissues. Between one blink and another, the word coats in a layer of purple fog. Nate’s senses sharpen, he vibrates with the rhythm of his heartbeat. Hancock’s fine with popping the pills like candies, letting the sugar melt on his tongue before he swallows it, one after another.

Nate drinks his portion of the Nuka-Cola, diluting it with water so it’s not so sickly sweet. He plays with the cap, sliding it with one finger. Hancock hums alongside the radio, sleepy-slow and bit of key, immensely comforting. The lack of conversation on his part is strange, he’s such a blabbermouth after the Mentats, very charismatic and suave, more so than normally. He’s mute now and Nate doesn’t dare to speak.

For once the silence doesn’t weigh on them. They recline over the mattress, side to side. It’s so good like that, calm, like it used to be before Nate screwed everything up catching feelings. But he doesn’t let it bother him right now, lulled by the promise of rest, the heat of Hancock’s body.

Hancock falls asleep pretty fast, to the sound of the radio repeating the same repertoire of songs for the second time. Bach, Saint-Saëns, Edgar, Debussy. An hour later, Nate’s lies sleepless still, fingers pressed to the back of Hancock’s duster. When the sleep finally claims him in the late evening, his rest is short and fitful, dreams filled with heavy smoke and bullets blazing. Memories of the war, he might call these nightmares before, but now he’s not so certain.

He startles awake, heart drumming so hard his whole body pulsates with it. He’s warm, overheated, wrapped in Hancock’s coat - he had to take it off sometime in the night. Nate tries to move, hands sliding over the filthy mattress until he gets his bearing. Through the haze of hunger-pains and dizziness, he tugs the jar of Day Tripper and swallows two pills. His grip slips, and the bottle topples to the ground with a dull thud. It doesn’t break, and Nate lunges after it, catching it in his shaky hand and hiding it away, back in his jacket. He stays like that, half-sitting, half-crouching, one leg getting numb, stuck under his ass.

The radio’s off, as is the light. This means Hancock must have taken care of it around the same time he decided to lend Nate his duster as a blanket. He lies with his back turned, facing the wall, hat resting over his eyes, dead to the world, deaf to the disturbance, and he’ll remain so for another hour at last. But one loud noise could wake him up in an instant.

With that in mind, Nate drapes the duster over him and leaves checking the weather for later, pushing himself off the ground and grimacing at the pins-and-needles in his leg. He walks the discomfort quickly. The rifts and holes in the walls let in enough light that he can find his way around, eyes accustomed to the dimness. He makes do washing his hands and face with the leftover water. A waste, possibly, but a necessary one. Germs kill as swiftly as a bullet does, especially someone with a weak immune system, unused to living in the post-war world.

Hancock up on his feet faster than Nate expected him to be. He’s groggy and lethargic like he himself didn’t get enough sleep. Together they check the rest of the house but it’s completely ruined, the second floor collapsed and buried anything that might have some use under the wreckage.

They don’t talk much, don’t linger, leaving the attic with something akin to relief, both for different reasons.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one today, sorry, I am busy af bc of what’s going on. Ugh. After I upload the next chapter I’ll probably merge the two together into a longer one.

Narrowly escaping from an ambush by a group of super mutants - good thing these... creatures aren’t very bright - Nate and Hancock are forced to take a detour along the roundabout way that leads them across the street of the North End graveyard and further, next to the green walls of the Mean Pastries.

“Oh, no,” Nate gasps, abruptly crouching down in front of the viridescent door. His voice comes out much too loud considering that they just barely got away from being horribly maimed. ”No way.”

It takes Hancock some time before he notices the small, grayish cat, sticking its head from behind the half-opened door, partially hidden by a small pile of rubble. When he does, the noise he makes catches between a coo and a cackle. “Aw, hell,” he bites his lower lip, trying to contain his glee. He, too, doesn’t seem to care about the threat of super mutants any more. “Ain’t that just precious.”

The tomcat mewls, staring at Nate with big, yellow eyes. Its tail shots up curiously and Nate scrambles to return his gun back to the holster. It’s jammed anyways, so it’s not like it matters if he’s caught empty-handed. The spare .44 round pistol he carries in his duffel bag is out of ammo and the thin blade in his shoe is no match against one super mutant, let alone three of them, so he doesn’t bother. The placement of the weapon doesn’t matter to the cat; it doesn’t know the difference either way, but it appears that with both of his hand free, Nate inspires more trust, because the cat doesn’t waste a second, toddling closer and all but butting its head right into Nate’s palm, rubbing itself against it, purring like a small engine.

Nate’s never been an animal person, nor a people person either. But cats, though, _cats_. “I didn’t know you still had them,” he says, weakly, threading his fingers through the dirt-matted fur. The last time he saw a cat was... not so pleasant.

“Sure do,” Hancock murmurs, making no move to step closer, content to watch from afar. “They usually prefer to, ya know, stay away from hungry wastelan--”

Oh. _Oh _.__ “Fuck no,” scooping the cat in his arms, Nate jumps to his feet, cradling it against his chest. It twists with a mewl, settling into a comfortable position, kneading Nate’s bicep with its paws like a kitten would, claws catching on the stiff material of the bomber jacket. “We’re taking it.”

He expects Hancock to oppose, at least a little or just for show, but the ghoul just shrugs, face split by a huge grin. “Heh, Fahrenheit’ll love it.”

“She will?”

Hancock snorts, shakes his head a little. “Good thing you’re pretty, sunshine,” he huffs, can’t quite take his eyes off the display, “’cause God knows, sometimes...”

Nate’s book smart, not people smart, unfortunately. Always too busy, too fixated on something small and insignificant to pay attention to the bigger picture. He catches on fairly quickly though. “We can’t all be some great, know-it-all philanthropists like you, John. There’s not enough Mentats to go around.”

“That’s why I took the pill.” The experimental one that turned him ghoul. He always jokes about it, like the months he spent in excruciating pain, not knowing if he’ll live or die are even remotely funny. “The brain _and_ the looks?” Hancock brushes an invisible speck of dust from the collar of his shirt, ostentatiously. “You wouldn’t be able to handle that, brother.”

“Pretty sure I would.” The cat squeezes itself into the crook of Nate’s shoulder, ready for a nap. “I am good with my hands,” Nate says offhandedly, brushing the cat’s head, behind his pointy ear.

“Yeah, I know you are,” Hancock starts then actually stutters, stumbling over his words. It’s comical, like a child playing pantomime game, pretending to be a fish. “I mean, I am sure you--”

Nate grins. “Have you forgotten to take your daily dose of Mentats today?”

“Someone did ate the whole tin,” quick to recover, Hancock reminds, clearing his throat.

“Who could have done that?” Nate raises his voice in faux outrage. The cat meows in response at the disturbance, then rolls into a ball, wet nose resting under Nate’s chin. “Yes, baby,” Nate murmurs, keeping his volume carefully low, “who could have done something like that?”

“Christ.” Hancock covers his eyes with a hand, shielding them from the light. “Don’t make me regret it, okay? Let's go.” He's swift on his feet, taking a turn to bypass Nate, all set to head down the stairs.

“Wait, I wanted to check on Pickman and--”

Hancock whirls around, plants his hands on his hips and levels Nate with such a fierce glare he almost takes a step back. Almost. “Nah, I told ya. You let him live, fine by me, he’s whackin’ the raiders so it ain’t my business. But he’s a psycho, Nate, you saw how he was lookin’ at you, like he wanted to eat you alive or something. And these fucking creepy cards--”

“He’s harmless. Besides, the loot, John! He said--”

A flash of annoyance darkens Hancock’s expression. “That you can take the crap off the corpses he’s killin’ with his own hands! What if he changes his mind and dunno, decides to try his luck with you, hmm?” He takes a single, controlled breath, lets his hands fall to his sides. “I should've never sent you on that job.”

“But-”

“I’ll get someone to bring you that pile of useless garbage, whatever these fuckers carry on them anyways, if you want it that much, yeah?” Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Hancock glances over Nate’s shoulder, uncomfortable. “Your new pet is probably starving,” he says, with a final tone of a man used to having his words heard and respected. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Later. A close cousin of ‘never’. “Right.” Nate secures the cat with one hand, keeping the right one free. He purses his lips but doesn't labor the point, knowing full well that the argument is already lost. Hancock’s not wrong. Just because Pickman’s sights are fixed solely on the raiders now, doesn’t mean his restraint will keep. He is a deeply disturbed man, after all.

Hancock stares at the horizon as he gathers his thoughts. “Hey, look. You’re vicious, sharp, head-strong, but, sunshine, you trust too easily.” He glances at Nate, face shrouded by the brim of his tricorn hat. “I don’t wanna hear you put your faith in the wrong hands and someone took advantage of that.”

“I know.” Nate’s shoulders sag. It wouldn’t be the first time he let his credulity get the better of him.

For some reason, Nate’s easy agreement sours Hancock’s mood instead of lifting it. He doesn’t continue the argument, snaps his mouth shut. “Come on, we should get outta here ‘fore the muties catch a whiff of us.”

Nate drops his eyes to the ground. “Yeah, okay.” He moves a step, lining up with Hancock and together, they get down the dirty stairs, in complete silence.

Keeping a measured pace, they walk the rest of the way to Goodneighbor without a disturbance. Hancock hoards Nate like a lost sheep, taking a wide arch around the North End to avoid even catching a glimpse of the gallery. Nate’s glad for the attention, if anything. It’s a short trek after that, down the main road and straight to the entrance. Hancock’s body relaxes gradually, wirh every step closer to the gate, and by the time they pass the first guard, Hancock’s usual nonchalance is back and all the traces of earlier unease vanish.

The cat’s sleeping deeply, buried in the warmth of Nate’s embrace. The loud chatter of merchants doesn’t wake it, once they step into the city, nor does the buzzing of generators and turrets. The rain that fell over Goodneighbor this morning washed out the persistent stench of urea off the streets, making the air smell fresh and almost clean.

The market booms with noise. Hancock’s name rings on many lips, spoken with joy and reverence. He returns the greetings, gnashing his teeth in a wide smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. With one hand on Nate’s lower back, he pushes him in the direction of the State House but before they can open the door, Nate notices the reason for the sudden hurry.

Fahrenheit stands in the passageway, between the shops, blending with the shadows. The scar on her forehead stretches as her brows shot up. “Why the rush?”

“Fahr!” Hancock’s voice turns high. He coughs, stepping in front of Nate. The action’s too stiff to be taken as casual. “Did ya get the shipment?”

“I did,” Fahrenheit says curtly, staring Hancock down. “Guess you weren't wasting your time,” she huffs, narrowing her eyes. There’s more she wants to say and she opens her mouth to do so, but no words actually come out. She shifts to the left, bypassing Hancock, moving faster than he can react. “What’s that?” For once, the unamused grimace she dons isn’t caused by Nate’s antics. She stares at the sleeping cat, then back at Hancock. “Seriously?”

Hancock shrugs, briefly glancing at Nate, then anywhere else before meeting Fahrenheit’s eyes. ”Don’t see why not.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t.” Fahrenheit’s normally stoic face turns exasperated. “Fucking whipped.” The emotion is alien and new on her features. It doesn’t last and before long she leaves, not sparing them another glance. Her combat boots clatter loudly on the wet cobblestone.

“Is she angry with you?” Nate whispers when Fahrenheit disappears around the corner. She didn’t seem peeved, mostly mildly annoyed.

“Nah,” Hancock denies, though, standing as close as he does, Nate notices the quiet, relieved sigh that escapes his friend. Before he can ask about it, Hancock’s talking again, a mile a minute. “Damn, I am ready to drop. How ‘bout you, eh? You wanna pop in The Third Rail for a quick drink?”

There’s nothing ‘quick’ in taking a drink with Hancock, in the club or otherwise. He sets a punishing pace, downing a cup after a cup like it’s water, all while Nate’s barely standing on his feet after a round. A bender always ends the same way - with Hancock dragging Nate back home, three sheets to the wind. Then again, Nate’s not one to say ‘no’ to alcohol, ever, and he gives as good as he gets.

“With the cat, you mean?” he points out, tugging Hancock back by the sleeve. “I have a bottle of vodka in the freezer. If you’re up for it.”

“I’m always up for vodka.”

“You and me both,” Nate returns the smile, ducking into the alley, behind KL-E-0’s shop. The door is unlocked, just as he left it. The whirling of a generator carries softly, covered up by the humming of _La Marseillaise_ , that’s cut short once Codsworth sees them enter. One of the receptors twists to regard Nate, the glassed plate shines, freshly polished.

“Mr. Nate! It’s good to see you back home!”

“Hello, Codsworth. We have a guest.”

Codsworth twirls and all of his eye-stalks fix on Hancock. “Mr. Mayor!” He exclaims, floating closer. “Thank you, sir, for the cleaning supplies. I’ll put them to good use, you have my word.”

Hancock barks a pleased if a little startled laugh. “Yeah, sure, Cods. No problem.”

With the pleasantries out of the way, Codsworth zooms on the tomcat, extending one of his three arms to take the duffel bag off Nate’s shoulder. “Oh, and who could it be?” He chirps, looking over the unexpected visitor, who, in turn, blinks up at the robot, tail swishing up and down. “A new member of the household? Very strapping.”

“Could you prepare some food for it? Maybe a bed as well?” Nate asks as the cat jumps out of his hands. It stretches languidly, sniffs the ground, learning the surrounding.

“Certainly!” Always ready to assist, Codsworth hangs the bag on the hook. “I am sure we have some canned meat that might be acceptable. And a bowl of milk?” Immersed in his task, he examines the kitchenette, glazes over the bottles of brahmin milk on the table and the cupboard full of canned and boxed meals. The cat follows after him, eyeing the robot inquisitively.

“Thank you, Codsworth,” Nate says, taking the vodka off the freezer, then grabbing two glasses and balancing it all in one hand, fingers catching around the bottleneck. “We’ll be downstairs if you need us!”

“Of course, sir. I’ll take care of our little friend.”

Hancock snorts, reaching to liberate Nate off the glasses, taking the lead down the stairs. He turns the switch on with his elbow, moving inside the basement before the light has the time to flicker. He drops on the couch, planting the glasses on the nearby chair Nate uses as a nightstand.

“Looks like I am not even needed,” Nate snarks, leaning against the pillar. “You should just live here, since you like this place so much.”

“Nah, you should live with me.” Hancock takes off his hat, leaves it hanging off the back of the chair. “We have a real bathroom and all that good stuff.” He shrugs his coat next, throwing it haphazardly over the armrest.

Yes, fully functioning showers, a freaking bathtub and liters of clean, purified water versus Fahrenheit and her evil-eye. No thank you, sir.

“It’s too crowded for me.” Nate twists the cap off, pours the liquor into the glasses. He drinks it straight, though Hancock prefers it mixed with tarberry juice or cherry cola. He’s not picky though, so when his drink is ready, he drops his eyes to it and picks it up, swishing the liquor before taking a sip. Nate takes his own and gulps it down like the taste doesn’t bother him. The faster he drinks, the more wasted he’ll get, and that’s the only way to survive being this close to Hancock these days.

“Steady, you ain’t getting any younger.”

It’s a familiar joke. To his immense amusement, Nate’s considered rather uptight and proper for the post-war standards, especially in Goodneighbor. The pre-war ghouls tease him about it at times, Daisy especially, joking about finding him a sweetheart, saying he should ease off the drinking.

“Are you going to make an honest man out of me?” Nate refills his drink promptly, clenching his grip over the chilled surface.

“If that’s what it takes.”

Nate stares at the content of his glass. “Last time somebody tried, it didn’t end well.“ A tale as old as time. Who’d have thought that marrying a woman you only know for half a year could end badly? She wasn’t the marrying type, and for what it’s worth, neither was Nate. It ended as it always does, with regrets and a messy divorce.

“I’ve got more willpower.”

Nate can feel Hancock’s eyes crawl over him. He tries not to read into it too much. “I don’t doubt it.” He gives a weak laugh, gulps the vodka down, throat tight against the burning.

Hancock takes another sip, wetting his mouth, flicking the tip of his tongue over his lip. “Why don’t ya sit down?” He rasps, voice low from the alcohol.

Nate listens. He has to, otherwise, his legs would just have given in under him. The liquor makes his vision blurry. He plops on the seat next to Hancock, far enough not to touch but near, so the distance isn’t strange. It doesn’t amount to much, the couch is small and narrow it forces them closer. Hancock’s arm is right there, Nate could lean an inch to rest his head on it if he wanted.

Hancock doesn’t seem to share these reservations. “You always smell so nice, all the plants you handle.”

Carrot flowers for anodyne, thistle for antimicrobial, fern for pretty much anything else. The stench of it insipid and cloying. “Yeah, you only say that because you have no nose.”

“Ain't just me, sunshine. Fahr jokes that she knows the instant you’re comin' over. Says the whole building smells like a garden.”

“A fungus garden, maybe.” Not quite as tangy, but it’s far from the scent of fresh flowers, those not mutated and irradiated ones. “If I had a choice, I would prefer to smell like an orangerie.”

Hancock frowns, tries the word for himself a few times.“Orang-- fuck is that?”

“Something like a greenhouse, for fruit trees and such, just fancier.”

“Like Graygarden?”

“Exactly.”

“Don’t see what’s so cool ‘bout that. ‘Cept maybe the crops.”

“We had more types of plants, some of them highly decorative.” Nate’s mouth twists into a distant smile. “I know nothing about gardening, but my mate wanted to be a farmer. He babbled about it all the time.”

“Did he...?”

“He got shot. A minor injury, but he died from the infection.” Gangrene. No amount of Psycho can help when the necrosis sets. And at times they scarcely had anything else. “Happened all the time.” Nate shrugs. “Happens. Still.” In that aspect, the world didn’t change, it was just masked better, the truth concealed by the posters and magazines.

“That it does.”

Nate nurses his drink, finishing it by taking small sips. He spent days, questioning the new reality he found himself in. Between the flashes of sobriety, his new life was nothing but a bad trip, that he chased with chems and alcohol, anything he could lie his hands on, anything that would work. “You know,” he says, and he doesn’t bring it up often. He took Hancock back to Sanctuary once, before the MInutemen turned it into a settlement. They took the platform down, to the vault, into the freezing crypt of what was supposed to be his coffin for as long as the generators worked. He hadn’t been there since. “Before my cryo pod malfunctioned and spat me out, there was another incident, sixty years prior.”

“Nate--” Hancock tenses against him, Nate can’t stomach the pity that’s undoubtedly coming so he hurries up.

“The first generator got fired up and it was just my luck that the power started cutting off from the second room first, then one by one every cryo pod was turned off. You know, if the empty one next to me was occupied, I wouldn't be the only one to survive.”

Hancock mulls over the story, pursing his lips. “There might’ve not been enough power for both of you.”

“Or the alarm would start faster, the pods would open up sixty years earlier. And we would never meet.”

“Why do you--” Hancock’s jaw clenches. “It ain't really something I wanna think 'bout.”

“Neither do I. But I do, all the time. I think of what would happen to me if I didn’t meet you.” The chipped glass bites into Nate’s skin. He clenches it so hard in his hand it almost breaks. “I wouldn’t be able to survive this, if not for you.”

“That’s not true,” Hancock says, but he doesn’t know, not entirely, what a fucking mess Nate was, these first months, a mine ready to be triggered, looking for trouble, chasing his own death. Hancock plucks at the cuff of his shirt distractedly, adjusts the lapels, picks at the frying threads, restlessly. He has his own devils. A whole damn lot of them.

Nate puts the glass away, on the ground. His vision darkens as he bends down, he has to dig his fingers into the seat to not fall over. There’s still a little bit of vodka left in the bottle but he doesn’t plan on finishing it. He had too much, he can feel the tingling in the back of his throat.

“I wonder,” Hancock starts, playing with the button on his formal blue jacket. He ignores the unfinished bottle, his half-full glass. “What’d you think of me, if you met me before.” Before the pill, back in Diamond City. “I’ve been a real looker,” he adds absently. He doesn’t wait for an answer, goes right on. “I’d be in danger, ya know. Young John, wide-eyed and naïve.” The self-deprecating joke isn’t unusual, but the way he says it sounds distant, his own name strange on his tongue. Nate laughs a little, at the word choice. Wide-eyed and naïve, not what he’d choose to call him. Then, what does he know, really? “I’d sure as hell fall head over hills for a strapping soldier straight outta the recruitment posters that’re plastered all over the Common.” He pauses, takes a long swallow of the vodka, finishes it off. “And you wouldn’t even notice me, a skinny junkie with a bloody nose and a piece of shit mayor for a brother.”

”No way,” Nates quick to assure, tongue loosened by the alcohol. The day is starting to catch up on him, the nights without sleep, the withdraw. “I bet I would be all over you as soon as we meet.”

“Yeah, like all the drifters you take for a night?” For a guy who preaches slogans like, ‘of the people, for the people’, Nate didn’t expect Hancock to frown on casual sex. He never made a problem out of it before, hell, he indulged himself fairly often, or, well, used to.

They’re talking about an unlikely scenario, though. If Nate left the vault not sixty but ten years earlier, or five. He can’t imagine not loving Hancock, no matter where they would meet, and how. “You’d be special,” he mutters, laying his head on the armrest, facing Hancock. His body feels heavy, like it’s melting into the soft cotton. “You are special.”

Hancock’s eyes fall shut and his expression turns pinched. “You know I am not tourin’ anymore, but I’ve done my share to know that every one-night stand is special when you’re high as a kite and then in the morning you can barely recall your own name.” His eyelids lift. He watches the empty glass in his hand, his dark eyes pensive, far away. “And you compare every touch to that one you can’t have until it ain't enough, until it’s worse than not having it.” Hancock stops and looks strangely lost. His hand moves like he wants to reach for Nate but it falls, limply, back on his lap. “You ain’t going to remember this tomorrow, huh? You never do.” A corner of his mouth twitches in a not-quite smile. “Lightweight.”

It barely sounds like a question, Nate reckons he doesn’t need to strain himself to give an answer. He hums, so Hancock hopefully takes it as a sign to keep speaking. A callused hand falls on top of his head, nimble fingers thread through his hair, scratching his scalp, slow.

He lets his eyes fall shut.


	5. Chapter 5

Nate’s head pounds in the rhythm of the raindrops falling on the dirty concrete. He ducks under the balcony of the State House, and steps right into the Third Rail, just as the downpour starts for good. He hears the first thunder, catches the flash of the lightning before the door closes itself after him with a loud, unforgiving rasp.

The bouncer looks up, eyes jumping to the entrance. He starts to push himself up but seeing Nate, he flops back down. "Oh.” The chair puffs and screeches, as he shifts in his seat, trying to make himself comfortable again. “It's just you.”

Nate would have rolled his eyes if moving them didn’t make his headache worse. “Nice to see you too, Ham,” he grumbles instead, walking past the doorway, careful to step over the catwalk without making a noise. He doesn’t succeed, of course, the old wood groans under his feet, the rattle magnified by his hangover.

The ghoul shrugs, doesn’t make a notice of the pained grimace Nate’s face makes. “You’re early,” he says, hiding a yawn behind a palm of his hand. “That’s all.”

Eleven o’clock is hardly early. But his surprise is justified. It’s not often Nate gets himself up and running before noon. The bar is open all day though, so it’s not like time matters much around here.

The bar downstairs is quiet, mostly empty, save for a pair of regulars, sipping their drinks in the corner of the room. Nate squints at the bright, neon light, leans over the counter, one hand propping his head, fingers massaging the left temple where the throbbing is strongest.

“Charlie,” he rasps, rather pitifully, voice dry from yesterday’s vodka. Or, at least he thinks it’s from the vodka. He woke up positively drenched in alcohol, he might have had something else. Hard to say.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping off the night?” The robot huffs, taking only one look at Nate, before whirling closer, carrying over a polished glass. “Whiskey? Cola?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, pouring Nate a mixer; cherry cola and whiskey, the good kind. He doesn’t speak more than that; still grumpy about Nate ripping him off on the cleaning job last fall. The pay was definitely worth the hostility, even if the caps didn’t come from Charlie’s own pockets.

Nate wraps his fingers around the glass, catching it in mid-air. He chugs the whole thing down, letting out a satisfied sigh. Charlie replaces the drink even before the glass can fully settle on the counter, filling it to the brim with the leftover mix.

The headache doesn’t disperse, though it’s masked now with the slight buzz of alcohol. “Put it on my tab,” Nate sighs, pushing himself off the counter.

“You mean on Hancock’s,” Charlie grumbles, though not meanly, placing the glass in front of Nate and floating away, cutting the exchange short.

Hancock doesn’t pay for his drinks, that’s a well-known fact. Nate can’t really recall when he’d started sharing his tab, but he’s hardly going to complain about free drinks. He shrugs, catching the glass in one hand, moving away from the counter when somebody claps him on the shoulder, sliding into the stool on his right.

MacCready whistles, looking Nate up and down, grinning from ear to ear like a little shit he is. “Looking fresh, cowboy.”

“Fuck off, RJ.”

“Damn, someone really woke up on the wrong side of the bed today, huh,” he scrambles to keep up, abandoning his seat in favor of following Nate to the VIP lounge, laughing all the way there. “Yeesh, man, slow down, I wanted to have a chat.”

The tables and chairs from the last night are still sprawled in the middle of the room, ready for another round of cards and alcohol intoxication. MacCready flops onto a chair facing the door, Nate takes the next one over. “What’s wrong?” He doesn’t mean to sound so gruff, but the headache is killing him as he speaks. A quick dink should have fixed it up by now, but the pain refuses to go away, splitting his head open.

“Wrong? Nothing. Shi... err things are great.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“Just... I’ve been thinking--”

“Careful with that.”

“Oh, har-de-har.” MacCready shifts in his seat. His smile falls abruptly and he looks away, now strangely somber. “Duncan is getting better. He-- Daisy said I should bring him here, to the Common.” He grimaces after he says that, looks around with an exasperated huff. “Yeah, maybe not _here_ here.”

Goodneighbor’s not really a place to raise a child, not as young as Duncan. “Don’t let Hancock hear you say that,” Nate jokes, fishing a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his jacket. His hand shakes and it’s so unexpected he almost drops the pack on the ground.

If MacCready saw the tremor, he doesn’t mention it. “Ha!“ he snorts, readily helping himself to a cigarette. For a moment he’s busy with the lighter, taking the two, deep breaths of tobacco, inhaling strongly. “You’d probably rather stay here, yeah?” He starts after a long pause, ashing his cigarette on the edge of the table. “Maybe for the best. It’s a real cluster fu-- I mean, a real dumpster fire, whenever you leave Goodneighbor by yourself. Don’t get me wrong, Hancock’s a great guy, but man is he off his rockers.”

Nate’s not sure if heard it right and it takes him a moment to process, head throbbing in tune with his pulse. Off his rockers? Hancock? Maybe after a couple too many Psychos. But then, he’s neither a Psycho guy and his tolerance for bullshit is near damn angelic. “What are you talking about?”

“Uh, you know? Or you don’t, I mean how could you know if you’re not there when it happens.” MacCready babbles, puffing the cigarette, breathing the smoke and exhaling just as quickly. “Why do you think Fahr never makes a fuss about Hancock tagging along with you? Because it beats dealing with him when he’s in one of his moods.”

“I wasn’t aware that the glare she sends me wherever she sees me constitutes for _not_ making a fuss.” Nate flexes his fingers casually. It doesn’t help, so he hides them under the table, resting them over his lap. “Still, I call bullshit.”

“Call it whatever you want but I am the one stuck here since you decided to ditch me for Hancock. Some partner you are.”

“Oh, cry my a river, RJ. Last time I took you with us you were complaining the whole way to Hangman’s.”

“That’s only because you were picking up every piece of crap we found lying around!”

“Well, _Hancock_ doesn’t complain.” Now, thinking about it, he rarely even bats an eye when Nate digs through the corpses, filling his bag with various junk. Hell, he even helps carry it back to Goodneighbor.

“My point,” MacCready snorts but doesn’t elaborate. He puts his cigarette out on the ground, crushes it with the sole of his shoe as he stands from the chair. “I need to take a leak. You want something from Charlie?”

Nate points at his drink with a sharp nod of his head. “I am good.”

“Alright, I’ll--” MacCready takes half a step towards the door then pauses abruptly. “Man, are you alright?” He asks, narrowing his eyes at Nate. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“You’d look the same after a two-day bender with Hancock.” Nate lies, digging his fingers into the meat of his thigh to make them stop trembling. Futilely.

The snark is enough, however, to lower MacCready’s guard and he doesn’t pry any further. He turns with a snicker, muttering something under his breath. Nate catches, ‘Hancock’ and, ‘hopeless’ but the insistent buzzing in his head covers up the rest.

Thanks to the metal floor in the passageway, he can hear the exact moment MacCready’s footsteps quiet down. He yanks the jar of Day Tripper from his pocket, where he carried it next to his smokes. His hands are convulsing so badly he can barely open the cap, but he manages to unscrew it with his teeth.

“Ugh, fuck.”

The sole blue pill clatters at the bottom of the container and for a second Nate just looks at it, fighting his need with logic. He’s been rationing the pills, taking one every two days, trying to make them last until the end of the week. And he was successful thus far, but the craving is nearly unbearable, the pain-numbing and agonizing. He ought to save the last pill for later, for when he really needs it.

He doesn’t. He gives in and swallows, washing it down with a sip of whiskey. The effect is near-immediate - the humming stops, the world slows down to a crawl. Nate’s hands tense before they go lax. He squeezes his eyes, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth until he tastes blood. He counts to ten, slowly and backward, and by the time he gets to one, the headache is gone as if by magic.

The bar comes back to life; it must have been louder in here than he had initially thought, with the sound blocked out by the rumbling and pain. Now, he hears the faint echo of chatter, Charlie’s curt voice, as he greets the patrons. From the speaker, Magnolia’s song comes to an end, the last notes, muffled through the wall.

If Nate were to close his eyes, amidst the stench of stale smoke and alcohol, he could almost pretend he’s somewhere else, in a different, filthy dive, light-years away. It’s a tempting illusion, but an illusion nonetheless. Like being trapped in a dream, he blinks and he is right back here, in the VIP lounge, bathed in the dull, red light.

Stiffly, he hides the empty jar in the safety of his jacket, keeps his hands there, sliding a finger over the cold glass absentmindedly. His earlier talk with MacCready takes on clarity and he recalls, with a slight grimace, how right his friend was in his assessment.

It sucks, being in love with Hancock. It’s not a revelation, nothing new either. Nate got used to it pretty quickly, though it wasn’t always easy, not at first. Of course, he’d prefer to live somewhere nicer, be it Diamond City or Covenant, with the fantasy of peace, a shard of the life he had, and lost. But he wouldn’t fit anywhere else. He barely belongs here, in the dark streets of Goodneighbor. With Hancock.

It’s a mistake, dwelling on it, and though he strains to change his train of thoughts, the only thing he can focus on is the past. It clings to him like a bad smell. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to stew in misery for long.

Hancock doesn’t really blend well with the crowd. He never goes unnoticed. It’s easy to notice when he appears; the area quickly fills up with his name. Predictably, the ghoul goes straight to the VIP’s, as though he knows where to look for Nate.

“That my favorite icicle I see?” Hancock sounds genuinely surprised to see him, eyes going round and soft. “Up so early? What's the occasion?” He runs his hand over Nate’s back as he sits down, close enough to stick a foot behind the rear leg of Nate’s chair.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Nate shrugs, plastering a neutral expression over his face. It works out since he looks like he’d just woke up, hair still bed mussed and wet from the rain.

Hancock glides his eyes over Nate’s face as if judging his truthfulness. He hums, taking hold of Nate’s drink and taking a sip. As he leans in, the strong smell of alcohol reaches Nate’s nose. If Hancock’s been drinking so early, it means his meeting was either a total success or a complete failure. “News of the day,” he rasps, twirling the glass in his hand, “if ya haven’t hear. Marowski’s gonna throw a party, for old times sake,” he makes air quotes with his fingers, screwing his face in a way that makes Nate burst out laughing. “And I need a plus one.”

“Oh?” Nate smiles, cheeks hurting from the strain.

Hancock stares Nate down, waiting for some sort of reaction and when he doesn’t get it he groans, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Lemme spell it out for ya, ” he stressing out his words, meeting Nate’s eyes. “Do you want to go with me?” He continues swiftly when Nate starts to open his mouth, repeating pointedly, “to Marowski’s. Do you wanna go? With me?”

Nate knows about the party from the guy himself, he got the invitation and everything. He wasn’t going to attend, but how he doesn’t really have a choice. “Sure,” he swallows against the sudden dryness in his throat. “I’ll ask Geneva to redo my suit.”

“That blue one?” The quick, sharp exhale Hancock lets out seems suspiciously nervous. “You look real nice in it.”

Nate shakes his head, prying the glass out of Hancock’s hand. “I found something better on a haul last month. The size is fine, just the sleeves are an inch or so too long,” he gulps the whiskey down, puts the glass on the table. “I was going to sell it, good thing I didn’t.”

“Well, sunshine,” Hancock drawls, eyes gleaming, in a tone, he only uses when he’s drunk off his ass, and since it really takes a lot to get him to this state, it doesn’t happen often. His empty hand finds its way on top on Nate’s thigh, next to the hem of his jacket. “I am sure you’re gonna look like a doll either way.”

He’s flirting. Sort of. He hasn’t done that for quite some time so it takes Nate by surprise. It’s just friendly banter, nothing more, but it feels unfair to partake in it, not when they’re clearly not on the same page.

“Uh,” Nate mumbles, feeling the back of his neck tingle from embarrassment. He used to be smooth, believe it or not. Hancock has him fumbling like an idiot. “Thanks.” The ghoul’s grin only widens and Nate, wholly unprepared for the blazing look he gets, averts his gaze. From the corner of his eye, he notices a movement, near the entrance, a shadow falling over the floor, and, grateful for the distraction, he shifts his attention there. “RJ?” He exclaims, a bit flabbergasted, at the way MacCready is hovering in the doorway, as if hesitant to come inside. “You coming or what?”

“Oh, um.” MacCready shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah, yeah. Hancock.” He says the name almost apologetically, stepping over the threshold. “How do you do?”

Instead of answering, Hancock lifts Nate’s glass with the hand that was until now resting proprietary on his leg, and pushes himself off the table. “Same thing?” He asks, and when Nate nods only then does he turn to the merc. “MacCready?”

“Anything’s fine,” MacCready stutters. Good to see Hancock has that effect on other people as well.

“Sure.”

Hancock leaves and MacCready deflates, immediately dropping into a chair as if all the air has gone out of him. “Whew,” he groans shortly. “I should have bet on that. Man, it was clear from the get-go you’re going to hit it up.”

Nate looks up quickly, startled. “What?”

“Sheesh, I am just joking, don’t get your pants in a twist. I wouldn’t bet on you. Well, I would,” he admits, sheepishly. “I’d share the caps, honest!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ugh, you and Hancock?”

Oh. _Oh_. “You’re out of your mind. There’s no ‘me and Hancock’.”

“Holy sh... holy crap... you freaking kidding me,” MacCready huffs out, shocked like he hasn’t expected it. But when he sees the somber expression on Nate’s face, his eyes go round like saucers. “Oh my god, are you blind, he’s hecking hung up on you.”

Great, another victim of those baseless rumors. And to think Nate took him for a rational guy. “No, he isn’t.”

MacCready gapes, mouth wide open, before he exclaims, “what’s wrong with you, his hand was on your tight, like that!” To illustrate his point, he slaps the table with his palm, fingers spread. He looks down on it, expression deeply scandalized. “Who does that?”

Nate’s starting to crack up. The situation is getting so surreal, it’s not even mortifying anymore. “Friends? Friends do that sometimes, you know, it’s just for fun.”

“Yeah, friends who want to stick their hands inside your pants.”

Nate snorts. “Speaking from experience here, huh, RJ?”

“Thanks, but no, thanks,” MacCready says, puffing up his cheeks. “I don’t want to get gutted in my sleep. That and you’re too high-maintenance for me.”

“What?” Nate chokes out between burst of half-suppressed laughter. “High-maintenance?”

“Uh, drinks aren’t cheap, for one, not that you’d know since you never pay for them.”

“Drinks?” Nate repeats in jest. “A couple glasses of whiskey is now ‘high-maintenance’?”

Right on cue, a tall bottle of liquor and three glassed appear on a steel tray. “What’s high-maintenance?” Hancock strides towards the table with a confident grin, then, placing the alcohol on the table, he returns to his seat.

“Well, me, according to RJ.”

“With a face like yours, sunshine, why shouldn’t you be?”

“For god's sake, guys,” MacCready whines, glancing from Nate to Hancock, then grimacing, letting out a disgusted groan. ”Really?”

“What?” Nate blinks back at MacCready, his brow rising.

Hancock shrugs with one arm, reaching for the bottle. “No idea.”

“Uh-huh,” MacCready lets out an exasperated sigh that becomes a very forced yawn. “I think I’ll be going. I have... things to do.”

Hancock doesn’t even bat an eye. “See ya, brother,” he says easily, inclining towards the table to pour the whiskey into the glasses.

“Oh, wait, before I forget,” MacCready pauses with one foot past the doorway. “About that coolant you wanted. I asked Solomon. He’s waiting for the delivery but he’ll save a couple for you. I’ll get them when I am in DC next week, okay?”

Pursing his lips, Hancock puts down the first glass a bit too forcefully, reaching for the other without raising his eyes from the table.

“Okay,” Nate drawls, eyeing his friend cautiously, “thanks. See you later.”

“Yeah, later,” MacCready mutters, sending Nate a pointed look, before closing the door after himself.

Hancock slides the drink to Nate. “Could’ve told me ya needed that,” he mutters, staring at his own, empty hands.

Nate sighs. He really hoped he could avoid this subject. “I really couldn’t,” he denies, swirling the content of his glass before taking a sip. “People are already talking, John.“ And not only that. It’s impossible to count how often Nate gets side-eyed by some of Hancock’s former hook-ups he used to share his chems with. They think it’s somehow Nate’s fault that the mayor doesn’t get laid anymore. Just because nowadays his attention rarely shifts from Nate, it's not an excuse to completely misunderstand their relationship.

“Didn’t know it bothered you,” Hancock says, gaze wandering to some distant point behind Nate’s shoulder. “Should’ve said something.”

With a heavy exhale Nate’s shoulders sink. “It doesn't. I thought it might bother _you_.”

“Why would it?” Hancock meets Nate’s eyes, at last. “Me, gettin’ it on with a piece of pre-war candy?” His laugh is a little breathy, drier than his usual cheerful one.“ If they wanna think I could be with someone like you, then all the better.”

Nate makes a startled noise at that, half embarrassment, half exasperation. “You are the most influential person out there. Pretty much everyone would be happy to hop into your bed. Hell, Marowski would, and he hates you.”

Hancock scowls, face marred with reproachful disgust. “That ‘cause they want something from me,” he points at alcohol laid on the table so Nate gets the picture. “But you have yourself settled,” he says that like it nags at him, as if it did for a while now. “And you don’t really need me, do ya?”

It’s preposterous that he could even think that. Nate doesn’t only need him, he also wants him, desperately. But it’s hardly something he wants to admit, so he doesn’t. “Aren’t you proud of my progress, though?” He asks, making himself smile, trying for a joke.

Hancock scoffs another laugh but the smile that curls his lips doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah”, he says grasping his drink in both hands. “First time we took off, Fahr said you’re gonna get me killed. Next time she just told me not to stay out for so long.”

They don’t talk much, about the time they met. Maybe because Nate barely remembers it. He stumbled into Goodneighbor at the right time, he shudders to think what would happen to him if he didn’t. What would he do to himself if he was left alone?

The reminder sobers the mood, twisting it into something heavy and stiff. Nate picks up his glass in an attempt to look unconcerned. He takes a big gulp and tries to pretend the silence doesn’t bother him.

And there’s MacCready and his idiotic rumors Nate can’t get out of his head. It’s different to hear it from someone he trusts, someone who’s supposed to know him. It’s idiotic to even consider it. Nate would know if Hancock wanted him too. They’ve been friends for long enough.

They finish their drinks in silence. Nate guzzles the liquor down, pouring himself another glass and two more right after. The chems and the copious amount of alcohol he gets into himself in a fast pace take a toll on him eventually. Drinking on an empty stomach isn’t a good idea but it has never stopped Nate before.

Hancock pats him on the arm, the unexpected touch electrifying. “You good? Come on, up you go, before I have to rent the lounge for the night. Again.”

Nate nods, head lighter now that it has been a second ago. He feels the lingering touch as if it been burned into his skin. “Okay,” he gasps after the silence became strangely prolonged. Hancock watches him carefully, eyes blown out and unreadable. “Okay. Let’s finish the bottle first.”

Hancock looks like he’s going to oppose, head tilted to the side. He shakes it, but not in disagreement. Letting out a sharp breath through his nostrils, he leans back in his chair. He gives in, just as he always does.

They move at the same time, reaching for the bottle. Nate’s too slow, reflexes delayed by the inebriation. His hand rests on top Hancock’s, half-way over the neck of the bottle. He keeps it here, staring at it bewildered. He can’t recall if they ever been this close before. They’ve shared a bed countless times, sleeping almost on top of each other. Yes, they’ve been close, but never quite like that.

Hancock's hand is warm, under Nate’s cold one, the mangled skin softer to the touch than it appears to be. He makes a soft, inquisitive noise, low in his throat. It’s quiet enough that it might not have been conscious. Nate wants to take his hand away, remove it and pretend it never happened. Yet, his fingers slide lower, down the back of Hancock’s wrist, stopping shy of the cuff, over the pulse point.

The feeling of rough cotton shakes him up and he lifts his head, apologies ready on the tip of his tongue, but once he sees Hancock’s expression, the words vanish in a puff of smoke. Hancock's eyes are hard, heated. He doesn’t budge, stays perfectly still, waits for Nate to break the distance, one way or another.

“I--” Nate starts, then regrets it immediately when Hancock's eyes jump to his lips. It’s enough for his heart to leap to his throat, drumming so hard it’s actually painful. Hancock shifts closer, but not all the way, as if daring Nate to close the distance himself. Nate thinks, _fuck it_ , and does just that.

Everything stops, inducing Nate’s heart. Hancock tastes like liquor and Mentats, exactly how Nate imagined he would. They fit seamlessly, like they’ve done it before, like it’s old news. Hancock grabs him by the waist, clutching at his jacket as if he wants it off, frantic with it. With one hand on Nate’s waist and the other buried in his hair, he yanks Nate closer, out of the chair and half on top of his lap.

Nate groans, high and surprised, wrapping his arms around Hancock’s shoulders to keep the balance, fingers curling in the fabric of his coat. He leans for another kiss but Hancock’s pushing away, searching his face for something, chest heaving. Nate can’t understand why they’re stopping, why now, but there’s not enough air in his lungs for him to get that question out, so he pants, “please, John,” choking on his breath.

Hancock lets out a soft groan, his hands flex on Nate’s hips in a short, abortive spasm, like it happened before he could stop it. “Christ,” he swears, hauling Nate until his back hits the table, knee spreading Nate’s thighs wider, making a place for himself as he puts both of his hands on Nate at once, deliberate and firm, “fucking hell.”

Nate feels the curve of his spine arch with the pressure of Hancock’s hands sliding up and down, as though he can’t decide where he wants to touch most. Nate’s ninety percent sure that this is a dream, a chem-induced fantasy he had one too many times; right until Hancock's teeth, blunt and even, scrape against the underside of his jaw.

“Oh, fuck.” Involuntarily, Nate lifts his ass up to grind against Hancock’s thigh and the hardness he feels through the thin material of his pants makes him whine. He brings a hand to his mouth, stuffs a finger between his teeth to stifle the noises he can’t quiet down otherwise.

Hancock rasp, low and displeased, grabbing the offended hand and pushing it down to the table, near Nate’s face. He laces their fingers together, drags himself even closer until their bodies are pressed up against one another, plastered chest to knee. When he speaks, his voice is so deep and firm Nate barely recognizes it. “I wanna hear ya,” he breathes out, right by Nate’s ear, pulling Nate back by his hips, pressing into his groin tighter until another moan rips through his mouth. “Yeah, like that.”

Hancock is all lean muscles and wiry body, but his grip on Nate is impossibly strong. Nate has to squeeze his eyes shut at the sight of Hancock, looking fucking feral, caging him in, rolling his hips in a way that should be fucking illegal. But it still isn’t enough, so he grabs fistfuls of Hancock duster, yanking him forward, as though it could be physically possible to get them closer than they are now, humping like a pair of teenagers in a back seat of a car in an open-air cinema.

It turns messy and greedy, the metal legs of the table scrape on the tiles so loudly it's a miracle nobody comes running to see what's going on. Nate doesn't really care, focused as he is on the hand that reaches underneath his shirt. No, he absolutely doesn't give a damn. He wants it, whatever it is, whatever he can have, for now.

And after tonight, if they can even remember that, he’d be happy to blame it all on the whiskey.

XXX

The next morning brings nothing but a dull headache and a big case of déjà vu, as Nate peels of his eyes open, head pounding from more than just the hangover. His mouth is dry, but the taste of Mentats and liquor is strong on his tongue. He expects to see his room, the familiar stacks of syringes and books he stole from the library months ago, or at worst Hancock’s couch, and that looming threat of walking on Fahrenheit sobers him up faster than a bullet in the head would.

He jerks up, dizzy and disorientated, ready to leap out of the balcony if needed be. But he’s not at the State House, nor at his own place. He blinks at the red, neon light of the VIP lounge, mind suddenly blank.

“Morning, sunshine.” Hancock’s smoking a cigarette, leaning against the opposite wall. It’s hard to say from his face but he seems drowsy, as though he just woke up himself. Or more like he didn’t sleep at all.

There, another thing Nate wasn’t expecting. He doesn’t recalls much; Hancock’s hands under his shirt, his tongue on his neck, nothing further than that. But from the way his body aches, PDA-approved making out wasn’t the only thing they did. It’s good, though. If he can’t remember what happened, he won’t have the material to compare every other person he fucks to Hancock.

Bleary, Nate looks around the room. His boots are tossed on different locations of the floor - he doesn’t recall taking them off - his pants are under the damn chair, classy, and the shirt, apparently wrangled on the other side, lies on the table. Fucking shit.

“So, ‘bout yesterday.”

Nate reaches for the pants, they’re the closest, and he drops them at the sound of Hancock’s voice, or, more precisely, his words. His face has to be a real sight to behold because Hancock chuckles.

“Heh, sorry,” he huffs, dumping the bud into an empty glass, the smoldering fire sizzles down, and dies. “Don’t think anything could’ve made me forget. Least the bottle of whiskey we had.”

“Oh, I--” Nate wrestles with his pants, yanking them on faster than he’d ever done in his life. “It’s fine, right?” He mutters, collecting his shoes. He would have gone for the shirt first if it wasn’t lying next to Hancock. “That’s to say, friends do that kind of thing.” It sounds idiotic when he says it, but what else could he do? Deny it? “Don’t they?”

For a second it’s so quiet the sound of a pin being dropped might have been too loud, too startling. Hancock scoffs a laugh though the smile that curls his lips doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, sure do,” he says, swiping his hand over the table in a casual motion, grabbing the shirt and lifting it up. “The rule is to no make shit awkward, after.”

There’s a distinctive challenge in his voice, and Nate stiffens. “Yeah, don’t worry, I can do that.” And it’s bullshit. Absolute bullshit. But so long as Hancock’s cool with that, he’ll adjust accordingly.

“I know you can.” With the shirt in hand, Hancock passes the table. Heading to the exit, he doesn’t pause but he drapes it over the back of the couch, gently. “So long, eh? Bother,” he says, dryly, and with a click of the metal door, he's gone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t slept in like two days so sorry if there’s a lot of mistakes I’ll check it out within a week when my brain works properly again. I'm just worried that if I don’t post it now, the file might get fucked somehow, it happened a few times, and if I have to rewrite this chapter from scratch.... ugh no nononon

“How long?”

Nate wipes a trembling hand over his lips, but the thick streak of blood flows undisturbed down his nostrils. He bails his hands into tight fists, stuffs them into the pockets of his jacket. Out of sight, out of mind. He doesn’t raise his eyes from the floor, blinking away the blurriness, counting the specks of dirt on the carpet. It’s getting hard, the edges of his vision swim, lose focus. The metallic taste is numbing and heavy in his mouth.

He doesn’t have to look at Hancock to know what expression he makes. His voice sounds terse and disapproving enough. “Look,” Hancock sighs when Nate purses his lips, remaining stubbornly silent. “I’m all for recreational chems, ya know me. But Nate, it ain’t recreational for you. Not anymore.”

The wave of nausea comes back tenfold, and Nate lets his head fall into his hands. He wants to say that it’s not the first time it happened, not even the second. But what actually comes out of his mouth is an angry rasp and a very ragged breath.

“Cait’d be mad as fuck, sunshine. If she could see you now. After you helped her with--”

No, it’s too much. Nate can’t stand it; the sympathy, the pity, the fucking guilt. Before Hancock can even finish, he pushes himself off the chair, so hard the wooden legs scrape over the floor with an ear-piercing shriek. The adrenaline keeps his body steady as he heaves, “if you find chems so disgusting, why don’t you come clean first?”

Hancock blinks, hands raised and ready to amortize Nate’s fall. He doesn’t move, but it’s clear that he would, if needed. “I will,” he says, simply, like it’s not a big deal, “if you do.” His tone is carefully mild, his smile shows just a hint of strain. It quickly disappears, replaced by a look of pure, undiluted worry. “You ain’t yourself.”

I’s not the reaction Nate hoped for. Not one bit. “Stop being so fucking condescending,” he snarls, bailing his hands, digging his nails into his palms in a futile hope of calming himself. “Just because we fucked doesn’t mean you get to tell me what to do.”

“Yeah, obviously.” Hancock’s anger is a vicious thing. His mouth stretches out in a mocking smile, lacking the usual warmth. His voice, as well, is devoid of all emotion. “You never fucking listen to a word I say even if I--”

“Oh, fuck off, Hancock, you’re not my keeper!”

Hancock laughs, a cold and humorless chuckle. He has to expect Nate’s outburst, knowing him as he does. Remembering with a start vividness, the glimpse of the past him, trigger-happy and volatile. “Funny. You were plenty happy bein’ bossed around before, huh, sunshine?”

The last specks of color drain out of Nate’s face. He swallows, stutters out, “you were--”

“Nah, love, you came to _me_ , not the other way around, remember?” That shuts Nate’s mouth instantly, jaw falling open on a sharp hiss. Hancock’s tone is downright patronizing, full of that bravado and arrogance Nate always found irresistible. Still does. “So be a good boy and stop actin’ out.” Hancock’s mask cracks, voice going strained and weak. “Lemme help ya, okay?”

It’s a low blow, to use Nate’s feelings against him like that. But the worst thing? It almost works; Nate _almost_ lets Hancock lure him back, with some gentle words and... what exactly? Some scraps of affection? Sex? Nate would take it, no question asked. If he can’t have nothing else, sex is the second best thing, especially since he scarcely ever allowed himself to hope for anything more than friendship. But it’s not fair. And he hates it.

There’s nothing but the nagging drumming of his heart against his rib cage as he stares at Hancock in stunned silence, before he gulps down a deep, steady breath and says, “fuck you,” in the calmest way he can muster. He’s out of the room in a rush, whirling so fast he can’t even see Hancock’s reaction, taking the rickety stairs, stumbling two stores down.

He hears the door banging after him, a sound of something being thrown, something breaking. “The fuck you’re looking at?” He snaps at the guard, who jumps from the entrance, caught red-handed with his ear against the wall. Great, why not? Have some more fucking rumors, some more diversity to it.

He pushes past the man, his vision alternatively too sharp and too blurry. The white anger, the humiliation, or the lack of self-preservation keep him going the couple of steps it takes him to get through the street and out of Goodneighbor. He kneels over in a pile of trash, nearly falls forward on his face. The nausea is back, and so is the headache.

He gropes for his jacket, searching his jeans, pulling out a lone jar of Buffout. He swallows a handful of pills, the taste of the steroid vile and acidic and he breathes deeply to keep himself from puking it all up. He doesn’t wait for the chem to start working, he follows the shortest route to the Boylston Club, bypassing the cemetery and the Park Street Station.

The raiders here rarely bother him, if at all, not after he killed Swan in a stroke of luck, overtaken by a drunken haze. They called him ‘crazy’, after that, the raiders did, and thanks to these glowing recommendations, it was an easy way, a door-opening, straight to the Combat Zone and Tommy Lonegan, even for a guy freshly out a Vault.

His old hideout from the times he worked for the ghoul as a supplier, before he joined Marowski, is in the same state it was left, the last time Nate’s been here. The generator works on and off, the last two bulbs on the corridor glimmer with sharp, yellow light. The elevator sits open before Nate and he steps inside, chooses the right button by feel only, resting his forehead against the cold tiles.

The stench of dust and decay is pungent, and it’s even worse the moment the door opens fully. But the state of the room is the last of Nate’s worries. He rushes to the bar, checks the safe in the closet, and grasps the dial in his shaky fingers, turning it clockwise until it stops with a click, then counterclockwise to retract the locking bolt and yank it open.

He ignores the stack of cash and the pile of caps he stashed over the months for a rainy day. He searches blindly until his hand clasps around a metal lunchbox and all but drags it out, ripping it open. The content of the box falls to the floor, but all Nate cares about is a single syringe of Calmex, wrapped carefully in a white cloth. He catches it in his fist, unusually clumsy, and punches the needle into his tight.

He blacks out. Or maybe he just closes his eyes for a couple of minutes. Whichever happens, he comes to himself lying on his back on the wooden floor that smells like death and ash, surrounded by dollar bills, floating around in the gentle breeze leaking through the broken window. The needle pokes out of his skin, caught in the thick material of his jeans. He yanks it out, throws the empty syringe into a pile of debris in the corner.

“Shit.”

It gets to him like a slap across the face, like a kick in the groin. He fucked up. He fucked up not once, but twice. Chems aside. He feels the flush of blood burning his cheeks at the reminder of Hancock’s words. Fucking hell. He can’t fucking stand it. Hancock would take him back, he’s too good of a person not to. But Nate can’t, he absolutely can not stand to be there, to see him every day, not after... No. No way in hell.

It’s a nightmare. Worse than that. He should have told him the first time it happened. Should have said, ‘no, no I can’t make it _not_ awkward’. But where would they be now? Hancock can barely look at Nate as it is, and that’s _before_ he got himself fucking addicted to rarer that the perfectly preserved pie chem out there.

He needs to get himself in check. But he can hardly dump his problems on Hancock, can’t use his friendship like that. He just can’t ask, because Hancock would say, ‘yes,’ he would agree without a second of thought. It doesn’t mean he returns Nate’s feelings, that he loves him more than a friend would. Not the way Nate does.

For some time Nate believed it would be enough, that this clusterfuck of a situation had a chance of ending on a positive note. That if Hancock found it in himself, to return even a fraction of Nate’s love, he could fill his fist with it, twists it into something better, something pleasurable. Something that could be enough.

He couldn’t. And lying to himself becomes harder than lying to Hancock, impossible when he can’t even believe his own words anymore. But it’s hardly Hancock’s fault. Even if he keeps Nate tethered, shields the spark of hope from the harsh reality of it all. It’s cruel, if good intended.

Nate allows himself half a breath before getting himself off the floor and breaking the pity-party. Meticulously, he cleans his cash, counts the bills and locks the safe. He spares a quick glance at the neat row of wine bottles, standing on the counter. He moves past them with purpose, heading for the door, picking up the baseball bat from the shelf as if in an afterthought.

He won’t return to Goodneighbor, that’s his immediate plan. In spite of everything, there are other places he can stay in, some of them he would be even welcomed into.

There’s a more urgent issue, however. The matter of his addiction. He’s done it before, so it’s not like it’s a new occurrence. It’d take some time, it’ll hurt as fuck; he can already feel nausea at the thought of addictol, but he’ll manage. He always does. When life brings him shit, he manages, That’s what he does.

He’s not completely alone in it. After all, there’s someone he can turn to. Someone who, if he’s not mistaken, is standing right outside the Combat Zone, smoking a cigarette.

“Well, well... who does me eyes see,” Cait grins like a cat who got the cream. She raises a brow, takes stock of Nate’s disheveled clothes, the traces of blood on his jaw he forgot to clean up. Her eyes gleam. “Lovely day for a stroll, eh? How’s it hangin’?”

“Oh, you know.” Nate returns the smile, or, well, he tries to. The final effect resembles more a grimace than anything else. “The day’s still young.” He’s aware of how his voice sounds, like it’s been polished one too many times with sandpaper. Feels that way too.

“If you’re here to ask if I’m stayin’ clean, the answer’s yes.” She tilts her head, watches as he takes out a cigarette, struggles with the lighter while holding out to his bat, maneuvering it around. “Goin’ by your face, handsome, I’d say that’s not your case.”

She’s more than right, but from the knowing expression on her face, it’s easy to deduce she doesn’t need to hear it confirmed. They’re similar, she and Nate, a little bit too much.

“Came all this way alone? Where’s your mayor?”

Nate’s grip on the bat tightens as he swings it nervously, bringing more attention to it that’s wise. That small tick as well doesn’t escape Cait’s notice.

“That bad, eh?“ She puffs out the smoke twice more before flicking the bud away, leaning on the wall, hands in the front pockets of her pants. “You down for some trouble?”

With a question like that, she either means sex or murder, and Nate’s down for whichever. “Something in particular you have in mind?” He replies distractedly, breathing in the smoke.

He has three, four hours tops before his head starts killing him. Best-case scenario, he’ll meet Wolfgang on the way, with a shipment of chems on the ready. The chances of that happening are... pretty low, even with Nate’s luck. His second option is buying as much addictol as he can carry and holing up in the Boylston Club for the duration of the treatment. But he has neither the water nor food, and there’s still a chance he’d choke to death with his own vomit, left alone without supervision. His best hope, therefore, is getting to Diamond City, but that’d mean staying there for an entire month, if not more, and that’s assuming Doctor Sun would agree to get Nate treated for a quarter of the caps.

“I’d get you an addictol, but I don’t have any on me.” Cait slips the forgotten cigarette out of Nate’s hold, taps the ash onto the ground and takes a puff. “Vault 95 sound good? You in for a hike?”

With a heavy exhale, Nate’s shoulders sink. Disregarding the sarcasm, Cait has a point. He’d love to be optimistic about it, but it’s not his nature. Plus, there’s the distinct possibility that this time, addictol may prove useless. And checking in a rehabilitation institute for a quick fix in the detox chamber could be a lot more efficient in the long run.

“Yeah,” he mutters, reaching for the cigarette. He needs to send a word to Goodneighbor first. He owes Hancock that much.

Cait agrees to play the messenger, albeit reluctantly. She checks in with Tommy, grabs her weapons and together, just like in the old times, she and Nate blaze through the Commonwealth, walking through the feral-infected streets, leaving a trail of blood behind them.

A quarter way to the Goodneighbor, Nate stumbles a step. Two muffled voices come from the direction of Custom House Tower. It’s not strange in itself, people do live here after the Minutemen cleared the area of super mutants and other pests. Nate moves past the alley, not even bothering to look that way. That is, before he hears Hancock’s name, thrown in the conversation like it’s nothing.

“...of shit. You gonna off Hancock by yourself or what, idiot? They’d have your munchin’ on dirt ‘fore you get a step past the fucking gate. No way in hell.”

The second mobster cackles. “You’d be talkin’ different if ya knew how many caps Ernie’s payin’ for it.”

“Yeah? You think a box of caps’d make me fuck with the mayor of fucking Goodneighbor? You’re a lunatic.”

“Fifty thousand caps.”

The instant pause pushes Nate forward. He doesn’t have to go far, just to the edge of the stone fence, crouching low, making enough space for Cait to squeeze herself it.

“Fifty th\--”

“Up. Front. The other half after the job’s good and done.”

“Holy fucking shit.”

The woman’s face is shrouded by thick, black goggles, but even if it weren’t, the awe in her tone is clear as a bell. She looks generic enough, there’s a chance Nate has seen her before. He might have talked to her, and he wouldn’t even know.

For the first time in years, since his old life ended and the recent one started, first time ever, he’s sick of himself. Sick of his own avoidance, of the way he lived his life with his eyes closed, sleeping through it.

He stayed on the sidelines, believing he’s fine like that, always on the outside, always fucking sorry for himself like a whiny piece of shit. And it would take a single question, if he could only bring himself to fucking ask Hancock about it. But he never did. He heard, ‘business’, and he’d clam up, like an absolute asshole, latching to Hancock, depending on the ghoul to--

Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

So there Nate is, in a dark alley that smells worse than a sewer after a radstorm. How long was it going on for? How long Hancock knew that every time he leaves Goodneighbor on some stupid errand with Nate it could be the last thing he ever does? That he could find his death at the end of a submachine gun? 

“All right, fucker. All right. You have a plan, yeah? Let’s hear it.”

“You bet your ass I do. Now listen, remember Trish? Well, she owes me a favor. Said she’d get me into Goodneighbor, but after that, I’m on my own.”

“What ‘bout Marowski? He can’t--”

“What Marowski doesn’t know...” The triggerman sing-songs in a horrible parody of a party-tune. “And ‘sides, he barely knows me. What does he care, huh? He won’t even see me comin’.”

There’s something familiar about the man. His yellow suit patched on the knees, the blood-stained jacket torn near the elbow. His voice. Yes, it sounds so different now, doesn’t it? When he isn’t shitting his pants in fear, wiggling on Hancock’s floor, pushing Nate out of his way in his haste to get out of Goodneighbor. Oh, Nate remembers him all right.

“So I get in, we have a chat, man on man, you get my drift--”

“Nah,” the woman shakes her head vehemently. “He’d gut you like a molerat then do ya like he did Vic.”

“But I am not gonna fight him. See this?” A small jar, made of dark, reflective glass. The mobster retrieves it from his jacket and hides it right away, patting the pocket. “I got it from Solomon. Cost me fucktons of caps, but if it works, man, we’re gonna be rich.”

“What does it do?”

“Same thing other chems.” Said like a true connoisseur. “Except this one kills you dead after a single pill.”

“You sure he’s gonna take it?”

“And why no? I got it mixed with the usual ones, so if he wants me to try first, I am covered.”

“Fuck, that might just work.”

That not only _might_ work. It definitely will. Everyone knows you’re supposed to bring Hancock chems if you want to ask him a favor. The ghoul’s careful, yes, to an extent. And if he’s as pissed at Nate as he knows he is, he’ll pop the pills like it’s water, he won’t even care.

“It will--”

“Like hell it will,” Nate snarls, jumping out of his shelter and charging straight at the mobster.

“Oi! What\-- Shite.”

Nate’s single-minded, in a way he rarely is. He doesn’t notice the rest of the triggermen, sitting around on the staircase a couple of feet away. Out of the hearing range, but not out of the view. It wouldn’t change much if he did; he always runs head first, brain second. If at all.

The men lunge toward him, guns up and loaded. But Nate has what he wanted. He jabs the fucker in the face, bashing his nose inside his skull. He wouldn’t be able to do that, not without the chem courage he’s stuffed with. The man is probably dead on landing, but Nate keeps on going, forcing a blow after a blow until the fucker’s mug looks more like a Halloween pumpkin than a face. Buffout at its finest, ladies and gentlemen.

The goggle-clad woman slashes Nate’s arm. Her blade is straight-backed and sharp, but the pain doesn’t register. Just the slap of the cold air against the uncovered skin of Nate’s bicep before he turns his bat at her, serving her a left-side hit to the head and a right-side one to jaw as she falls.

Two down. Then the bullet pierces through his leg. A graze. Nate breathes out, keeps his feet moving, eyes on the next target. Three more bullets before he bridges the distance. Four. No, five. Fuck, he lost count. The triggerman draws, Nate pivots, whirls around and lands a punch, bat to the side, bat to the head. And again, in the same style. One to the side. One to the head.

“Jesus!” Cait swears.

It’s not the carnage that has her alarmed, but an assault rifle, firing a round right as Nate turns to the assailant. The first bullet’s a fluke. The second’s less so. The couple more land true. Nate’s drenched in blood, head to toe. On the hands, fingers to elbow, it’s not his, for sure. His bomber jacket is right fucked though, after that, in a state of permanent disrepair, torn in a swiss-cheese pattern.

The guy reloads; it’s a slow gun, it takes some time, he’s on the ground pushing daisies before he can slap the last bullet into the magazine. The last fucker, done for.

Cait stands over his body, whipping her pistol once more in his head, just to make sure. Her pants are splattered with blood, but otherwise she’s unscathed. Her mouth opens. She gasps, yells or maybe whispers. As far as Nate is concerned, she doesn’t make a sound. But she’s fine, she’s alive. She’s heard Ernie’s plan. She’ll find Hancock and warn him, if not for the caps, then because she knows Nate would want her to do it.

They’re friends, and she owes him. She knows Nate doesn’t care, that he can’t collect the debt if he’s dead, that it doesn’t count. Still, it’s easier to breathe, somehow, with the knowledge. The bat tumbles out of Nate’s hands, glides through his fingers. Funny how he only now notices that the wood is cracked. It wouldn’t survive another hit. Nate follows it down. Not that he really cares about the weapon, mostly because he can’t hold his weight anymore.

With his strength faltering, he fights with his own body, tries to lift his head, raises his eyes to the sky. He watches and watches, but the sky remains empty. The buzzing of an incoming vertibird is steady and so, so loud, but there’s no sign of it. Finally, his eyes slip closed, and that’s when he gets it. The buzzing.

The sound of his slowing heart, pumping the last of his blood running on empty.

XXX

It feels like he’s dying, and that’s how he knows he’s not.

He surrounded by light. It fades quickly as he breathes in and breathes out, steady and calm. His eyes focus, the clarity returns.

He’s lying on a mattress. A real mattress, red, with springs that move under his back as she shifts. It smells clean but not like a detergent, like soap, water and air. He can’t really move. He tried it once and he couldn’t see from the pain for the next five minutes. Or an hour. Who knows, he doesn’t have a watch, his Pip-Boy’s off of his wrist, gone.

His hands are fine, though his muscles are not. He moves his fingers over the space he can reach, the edge of the mattress, over the hole in the cotton, in the same place his own mattress is torn, the one in his former room, at Rexford. The frame of the bed is likewise similar; it still has Nate’s knife, stuck to the edge, hidden under a pillow.

It doesn’t follow. He’s in his bed, but not in a hotel, and not in his house. There’s a table in the middle of the room, cluttered with chems and liquor. It’s messy, and messy doesn’t fly in a house with Codsworth at the helm. A red couch lounges in its place near the window, but the other one, the faded green-beige settee is pushed to the back of the room, to make space for the bed.

As far as Nate can see, he isn’t alone. There’s a chair on the left, he knows, because he heard the legs scraping on the wood as someone sat down on it, fiddling with the radio on the nightstand. Richard Wagner, _Ride of the Valkyries_. Much better than Mozart’s _Lacrimosa_ , situation-wise. What kind of sick joke it is to wake up to a requiem after a close encounter with the death itself? A little funny, though. Nate appreciates the irony.

On the right, there’s a kitchenette. And Nate’s been called dim before, but this time he’s sure he can be excused for not catching on quicker. On the kitchenette, right on the level of Nate’s eyes - a first-aid kit, and on it, a box of Sugar Bombs. The same brand of cereal Hancock keeps stocked up since Nate lets it slip that he likes the taste.

So. Nate’s old bed, in Hancock’s own room. The thing wet dreams are made of.

It’s fair to assume that the constant presence on Nate’s side is, in fact, the owner of the building. Nate’s ninety percent sure that he’s right. He is, also, determined to turn a new leaf, to abandon his old ways and _ask_. And he intends to do just that, except when he speaks Hancock's name, something else comes out.

It’s scrambled, barely a word. His throat is tight and dry as a desert, and he gurgles out a raw noise that alarms Hancock so effectively he jumps to his feet, pushing the radio with a thud, one hand flailing to grasp the bedpost.

“Jn--”

A glass of water is stuck under Nate’s mouth, blocking his second attempt at speech, but he swallows the liquid gratefully, licking his chapped lips when he’s done.

“John--”

“Shh,” Hancock shushes Nate up, pouring more water into the glass and feeding it to Nate until he’s satisfied. “Get Amari,” he rasps, slamming the glass down on the nightstand, eyes on someone standing out of the range of Nate’s eyes.

“John, you--”

It’s the first time since Nate awoke that Hancock looks him straight in the eye. He’s not pleased. His eyes are ablaze, the anger is seeping through his pores, clear in the rigid lines of his body, the tension of his shoulders. “I told ya--”

“Ernie called a hit on you!”

Hancock isn’t shocked by the revelation. On the contrary, it seems like he wants to be mad. The irritation and fondness fight over a place on his face. Fondness wins, and Hancock sighs. “Christ, sunshine. I know.”

It’s not an answer. Not the _right_ answer. Nate’s expression pinches, his brow furrow as he stares at Hancock, gritting his teeth. If the determination comes as a surprise, there’s nothing in Hancock’s reaction that points to it.

“Ernie’s dealt with,” he says, brushing his fingers over the mattress, right by Nate’s hand. Swish, swish, left and right, not touching. “On the flip side, I own the track now.” They both laugh at that. Easy City Downs, bought by the highest bidder. Or, in a true, post-war fashion, bought by the last man standing. “We can go watch a race, sometimes, if you wanna.”

“The whole track,” Nate mutters weakly, holding his stomach so it doesn’t split. “I want to name a robot.” He’s either giddy, or the concoction of Med-X and Addictol made him half delirious. He’s not sure yet.

“You can name ‘em all.” Hancock’s chuckle sounds forced and uneasy. There’s a rush of raw pain in his voice, wholly out-of-place given the subject. He doesn’t look at Nate. There’s no acknowledgment of their proximity aside from the vein jumping at the base of his throat.

“I--“

“Look--“

They speak at the same moment, open and close their mouths at the exact second. As a result, neither of them say a word, and Nate’s left with the first two letters of his name uttered so quietly it might as well be a prayer. He doesn’t get to ask about it. The door creaks open, but the noise of rusty hinges is nothing compared to the ear-piercing slap of latex on bare skin.

“Nathaniel. I am truly astonished. We didn’t expect to see you up for another week.” Amari walks into the room with a steady gait of a seasoned medic. Nate notices the hem of her coat, freshly bleached, the spots more white than the rest of the material. “You’ve lost a significant amount of blood, three liters, to be precise. Least to say, you almost exsanguinated.”

Medical jargon aside, from the amount of blood it’s easy to guess he almost died of blood loss. Consciously or not, Hancock confirms the assumption, gripping the sheets tightly, clutching so hard his hand shakes. It’s an abrupt movement, something easy to write off as a nervous tick, an ordinary gesture, unimportant.

“We used all the O type blood pack we had on hand, it wasn’t enough, of course, but we filled the rest with saline,” she points at the empty bag descending on a line form the pipe sticking out of the ceiling, like it should mean something to Nate, besides the obvious. “We still need to continue with the transfusion, we just weren’t entirely sure what your blood type is. But now that you’re awake...” She places a hand on the small, blue cooler, lifting the lid. “Is it by chance A+?”

“Yes, how did you--”

“Well, then,” Amari pulls out a blood bag, checks the sign on the front label. “It seems Mr. Mayor was right, after all.”

Hancock’s still avoiding Nate’s gaze, but he answers, staring out of the window, as in deep thought. “Dog tags.”

Nate remembers, he showed them to Hancock himself. That late night in the Sanctuary, when it was still abandoned. The wallet, he took from the locker where all his belonging were, down the Vault, after they told him to change into the suit and enter the ‘decontamination pod’. The photos from his youth Codsworth kept safe all these years, hidden and locked, under the shelf. The simple wedding rings in a black velvet box, the divorce papers. Nate’s uniform, gray from age. And the dog tags.

“Alright,” Amari claps her hands after she finishes changing the blood bags. She sits at the edge of Nate’s bed, holding the other end of the cord.

Nate takes one, fleeting look at the needle, tick as his fingers and jolts away, his back hiding the bedpost. He doesn’t know what hurts more, his abdomen or his back.

Amari clucks her tongue. “All that Med-X and you’re scared of a needle?”

“You call that a needle?” Nate mutters, letting Hancock ease him back on the bed. “With how thick it is, no way it’s supposed to go into my veins.” Or any veins, period.

“I assure you, Nathaniel, it’s the correct needle, and it _is_ supposed to go into your veins. Now, your arm, please. Or would you like me to give you general anesthesia instead?”

None of the above would be ideal. But Nate doesn’t want to make more of a fuss, so he places his right arm in Amari’s hand, as she instructed.

Hancock picks at the cuff of Nate’s shirt, touches his fingers to the palm of Nate’s hand, twisted firmly into the sheets. “You wanna hold my hand, hmm? Go ahead.”

It’s a joke, obviously, but Hancock will deal with it and maybe think twice about offering next time. Without looking up, Nate grabs Hancock’s hand and squeezes, just as the needle enters his inner elbow. The feeling of rough skin against his is both good and bad. It’s distracting enough to work straight away. Nate’s mind flashes with the images of Hancock’s hands all around him, holding him down, bringing him on a verge of completion.

It’s not an appropriate train of thoughts for this situation, even if it last just second, but Nate’s twice as glad when Amari plasters a square of medical tape over the needle to keep it in place, and leaves.

Nate expects Hancock to promptly let go of his hand, to finish his joke, tease about it. But what actually happens isn’t so straightforward. Hancock closes his eyes slowly, as though an exquisite pain has gone through him, expression devastated. There’s a hitch in his voice when he speaks next. “You’re too much sometimes,” he says under his breath. His touch trails along Nate’s wrist before he pries his hands, leaning back against the nightstand, eyes away.

“I am sorry,” Nate blurts out before he can even prepare the list of things he regrets. Starting from the most recent, he goes as far as to leaving without a word, but he abandons that idea because it’d require an explanation too, and there’s not a lot of convincing lies he can make on the spot, even less of those Hancock would actually believe in.

Hancock wipes his face with the palm of his hands, keeps it over his eyes for a long while. “I am just glad you got back in one piece.” His voice is choked, and Nate’s chest breaks in tune with it. “Do us both a favor and don’t pull that shit ever again.” Hancock forces a smile on his face, it’s strained and all wrong, and his tone doesn’t match it in the slightest. “Red isn’t a good look on ya, sunshine,” he says, pushing himself off the nightstand and stepping in front of the window, standing with his back to the bed. “I’d much prefer you in blue.”

“I won’t.” Even if it means staying put in his basement. The raw pain on Hancock’s face isn’t worth the hassle. “I swear.”

“I just hope you get where I was comin’ from.” Hancock keeps himself angled away, his reflection on the smudged window is blurred and undefined. “I didn’t wanna bitch, seeing as I am the last person to preach ‘bout sobriety. But since our last heart-to-heart, what you said, it made me think.” He pauses, stopping himself. “We’ve been over this before, ya know what I mean. The old shtick. I thought I was using chems for fun but I wasn’t, so I eased up, ‘cause I didn’t want to risk kicking the bucket now, not when--”

Not when he’s finally clean? Or when he’s happy? There are a million ways it could go, so, of course, Hancock cuts it here. They might get back to in, in a couple of weeks, while watching the bottom of a bottle. And Nate starts to accept that, resigned to his fate when Hancock does something he isn’t expecting. He turns back.

”See, when I saw ya goin’ same way I did, I just--” His body is a dark silhouette, blunt against the white glow of the window. Bathed in the strong light, he looks like a Pickman-ish portrayal of a guardian angel, and the comparison is so stark Nate’s distracted enough to almost miss the last part. Almost. ”You’re everything to me.”

Nate knows this moment like the back of his hand; the surge of joy, the painful collision with the truth. The reluctant wave of exhaustion, the determination not to care when Hancock’s ‘everything’, and Nate’s ‘everything’ doesn’t quite match. It doesn’t matter whether Hancock truly knows or no. Whether he’s aware his affection tears into Nate like a serrated blade, always halting on the point of no return.

“I am sorry,” Nate repeats. He hopes it will be enough.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if it's my internet's fault or what but I had so many problems with posting this chapter on ao3 it's not even funny. 
> 
> Ok, now I want to write this fic from Hancock’s POV. But honestly, every time I write something from one character’s POV only I immediately want to change it around, wtf.
> 
> Also, all that talk about young Hancock and I kinda want to write a pre-canon fic for science and angst. I'd be an AU. It’d start with human Hancock and go with his story; him taking the pill, becoming a ghoul and then being a mayor and of course friends to lovers and dang I am really into that idea now. Ugh, I am enabling myself. ;/
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read this story, hope the ending is satisfactory!

The floor shines.

The wooden panels are not only cleaned; they are polished and _waxed_ , so thoroughly, Nate can see his own reflection, staring back at him when he glances at the floor. It’s uncanny what Marowski did with this place. Unbelievable. Like walking into a dream, or an hour-long session in a memory lounger, down to the shiny, crystal chandelier, and the burgundy settees.

And the people. Oh, the people. The crème de la crème of the Commonwealth. Judging by the sour expressions and fancy clothes, most of them came straight from Diamond City. That explains the lack of familiar faces, though, Nate’s almost certain he saw the Latimers here. Well, it might be Hancock’s city, but it _is_ Marowski’s party, after all.

Eerie, how after all this time, nothing has really changed; the people, hiding their misery behind bottles of steep liquor, dabbing their tears into the elegant dresses, the sleek tuxedos. Pretending the world outside doesn’t exist, that the war is just a tale, a story happening somewhere else, far, far away. The word didn’t end. It’s still here, unchanged. Nate just never took the time to properly see, focusing on the things that were, instead of things that are. It’s good to be proven wrong, sometimes.

The party’s about to start. The guests are coming in, left and right, and the reception slowly becomes far too crowded for Nate’s tastes. Still, he remains, picking at the hem of his blue, pressed suit. With his heart in his throat, he plasters himself against the wall, trying to merge with the wallpaper and disappear.

If he feels any regret about accepting the invitation, it fades as soon as he catches the sign of a familiar, red duster, partially hidden behind a group of pre-war ghouls, clad in clean but aged suits, Triggerman-yellow.

Hancock stands near the staircase, eyes already on Nate, gleaming like simmering coals, from across the room. He’s dressed in a fitted, black suit, but he’s carrying his coat, casually draped over his shoulders like a cape. His face is unreadable, half-shaded by the brim of his tricorn.

With a relieved exhale, Nate pushes past the hall, walks over to his friend and stops, shy of the first step, suddenly self-conscious in the face of Hancock’s fixed gaze, slowly sliding over his body; his legs, his waist, the expanse of his chest. “Is something--”

“No.” Hancock breaks the contact, taking two steps up the stairs, before halting, with one hand firmly gripping the railing. When he speaks, it seems as though he’s doing it reluctantly, eyes darting away, fixing on a spot in the distance. “The blue one, huh?”

“Oh, well, I--” Nate expected... he’s not sure what. A compliment? More of Hancock's usual banter? A meaningless flirtatious remark about this or that, or a joke, at the very least. Not _that_. “Codsworth said I looked better in this one.” As far as excuses go, it’s not the worst one. It’s not even a lie. The robot did insist that Nate should try on at least three suits before making a final decision. And who’d have thought, somehow Nate managed to choose the wrong one.

Hancock’s response is drowned by an abrupt cheer, coming from the entrance. Nate’s jostles, glancing at the commotion, at the flash of red sequin dress and Magnolia’s sly smile illuminated by the warm glow of the chandelier.

Hancock’s already moving, by the time Nate turns back to him, focused ahead, grimly determined. He pauses at the top of the stairs, body held taut like a string. The moment drags on, becomes something heavy and suffocating. But then, Hancock huffs, a sound dangerously close to a humorless snort; at the situation or himself, Nate isn’t sure. When his eyes land on Nate’s neck, the edge of white bandage sticking from under his collar, something complicated flits across his face, almost too quick to catch.

“C’mon,” he says, holding his arm out in invitation. The gesture is so achingly familiar Nate has no means to protect himself against it. “I got us a bottle of Amontillado.” Hancock grins at the speed in which Nate makes a grab for his hand. “Yeah, knew you’d like it. Fancy stuff.”

Nate pulls himself up as casually as he dares. “You’ve finally found something older than me.” He adjusts his already flawlessly fastened tie, just to give himself something to do with his free hand as he falls into step with Hancock. “I think that’s a good reason to be excited.”

“Heh, can’t argue with that.”

Hancock relaxes. That, or he’s spent the last week brushing up on his acting skills. His stride is easy, unhurried, the light smile doesn’t leave his face. But Nate keeps catching Hancock looking, flexing his fingers like he’s ready to grab Nate at any moment if he falters. It’s touching, if unnecessary. As everything is these days with Hancock. Nate’s been up and running in less than a month. His injuries healed rather nicely, all things considered, even without the help of chems to dull the pain. Well, his mother did always say, he had more luck than brains.

The second floor is almost deserted in comparison to the lobby. The noise is more of a steady hum than a cacophony and Nate’s pulse starts to decelerate, only to jump right back into a panic mode when he notices that the table Hancock’s been leading him to, isn’t at all empty. And he doesn’t mean the dinner set.

Fahrenheit stares at them as they approach, with an expression that doesn’t betray her thoughts. She returns their greetings with a lazy nod, both hands busy playing with a silver lighter, flicking the flip on and off. The cuffs of her gray jacket are rolled up to her elbows, revealing a long line of scars and burn marks, a skin of a survivor. She’s not armed, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous.

“Go ahead,” Hancock murmurs into Nate’s ear, urging him to sit with a quick push. “Give me a sec.” He’s pulling away before Nate can even open his mouth to oppose, whistling to himself skipping down the stairs.

Fahrenheit snorts. “Enjoying the party?” She doesn’t care about the answer, because she continues before Nate can give her any, hiding the lighter in the pocket of her jacket, under the chest piece. “Ease off, vaultie, I am not here for you.”

Well, that’s a relief. “Let me guess. Business?”

Fahrenheit shifts in her seat, a little taken aback by the question. “Yes.” She narrows her eyes, but there’s no hint of hostility in them, just a spark of curiosity. She clicks her tongue as she weighs her words. “The youngest Latimer’s dabbling in some tax-fraud. Hancock wants to _appeal_ to his father's good sense.”

“Nelson’s cheating Hancock out of caps?”

“Tires to.” Fahrenheit’s laughter is sharp and dark. A challenge. “Not for long, though.”

After the havoc Hancock and his men wreaked over the Easy City Downs, it honestly baffles Nate that there are still so many idiots left who want to mess with the ghoul, least some gangster-wannabe from Diamond City.  
There’s no way Nelson’s father didn’t hear about the carnage, with how often Travis spoke about it over the radio.

The rich boy might not the brightest bulb in the hallway, but his caring father would go to great lengths to keep his sole scion on Hancock’s good side, even if it means barfing out a horrendously big chunk of his fortune. It explains Fahrenheit’s contented mood. The perspective of filling the storeroom with a few more boxes of caps and valuables is enough to wipe the regular frown off her face.

“Ladies and gents, lemme present our guest,” Hancock’s shout echoes over the tumult and both Nate and Fahrenheit’s heads snap at the same time to watch the ghoul raise a bottle above his head like a trophy. “Amontillado Montressor, as promised.” Hancock slows down for long enough to open up the wine wedging the tip of his knife between the lid. The cork shots with a loud pop, landing somewhere on the floor, quickly forgotten. “Got it from a minuteman for a pack of ammo,” Hancock chuckles, catching the overflowing liquor into a glass. “These guys, am I right?”

“I thought it wasn’t your party,” Nate says, pointing at the bourbon resting already in the middle of the table, between the clean ashtray and two more bottles of moonshine. You can say what you want about Marowski, but the man knows how to make an impression on his guests.

“Please,” Hancock scowls, pushing the glass until Nate takes it in his hand. “As if I’d let ya drink that swill.”

There’s something immensely satisfying in watching the Mayor of Goodneighbor play waiter. He stands in front of the table, resting his hip on the edge, pouring the wine with a steady, expert hand, mid-air. And Nate clearly isn’t the only one thinking so. A young woman, with dark, curly hair and a neckline reaching nearly to her navel, eyes Hancock from her table so fiercely it’s a miracle Hancock’s not bursting into flames. She’s new, has to be, otherwise, Nate’d remember seeing her around the city.

Fahrenheit notices her too, though, to be fair, she most likely spotted the brunette long before Nate did. The bodyguard raises her brow, in that amused quirk Nate’s seen often directed at the drifters orbiting around Hancock. That half-pity, half-exasperation that appears more severe than it probably is. When she smirks, Nate knows what’s coming and he braces himself, taking a quick sip of the wine.

“Mm, delicious,” he babbles, looking around for a quick escape route. Staircase? No, too crowded. Bathroom? “I think I’ll--”

“Mayor Hancock.”

A soft voice, a little too high to be pleasant, resounds from right over his shoulder, preventing Nate from moving. He expected it, still, the noise startles him nearly to death. His feet itch to get the hell out of here, but his body refuses to cooperate. He stills, staring at the wine, the reflection of a silver dress on the half-empty glass.

“Darla,” Hancock returns the pleasantries, continuing to fill the glasses. “Lookin’ for Skinny?” His response is delivered in a tone so monotonous it clear he intends to cut the conversation short. “Saw him with Marowski, upstairs.”

The brunette, Darla, isn’t so easily deterred. She shakes her head. “It’s been some time since the last time I visited.” The mirrored image on the surface of Nate’s glass enlarges, as the woman shifts closer. “I thought maybe you should give me a tour?”

“Much fun as that sounds, I am in the middle of something right now.” Hancock doesn’t seem to have any idea how dismissive he sounds, though, Nate wouldn’t put it past him to simply not care. It's impossible to tell from his tone alone, whether he’s being genuine or not, but Nate doesn’t chance a look at his face.

“I see.” Darla hmphs noticing the lack of enthusiasm her proposition resulted in. “Until later, then.” She spins on her heel, more annoyed than offended, walking away with a sharp clatter of her high-heeled shoes.

“Sure, later.”

That went... differently than Nate expected it to. So differently, that it takes a couple of beats before Nate breaks out of his stupor. And it’s only because Hancock brushes a hand over his arm to draw his attention.

“Hey,” Hancock repeats, apparently ready to pretend he wasn’t just propositioned, quite obviously in fact. His posture slumps forwards a bit and he shakes the wine bottle. “Want a refill?”

“I-- No, I am good, thanks.” Nate brings the glass to his lips, but not before his stupid tongue does a number on him. “I don’t think she meant ‘a tour’ in the usual sense,” he blunders on, “did she?”

Hancock opens his mouth to give a reply, but then he just laughs awkwardly, dropping down on an empty chair between Nate and Fahrenheit. “Oh, uh--”

“She said it herself,” Fahrenheit interrupts swiftly, raising her arms in an unconcerned shrug, “it’s been some time. Things changed. Most people know Hancock’s signs are set on someone else.”

 _Someone else_.

Right. It’s not like Nate didn’t have his suspicion. He almost asks, ‘then why aren’t they here,’ but he’s said far too much already, so he grits his teeth and downs the rest of his drink in small, slow sips.

Yet, he can’t stop his mind from running a mental calculation, searching for a clue of the identity of that ‘someone else’ person. The only plausible candidate is Edward Deegan, and it’s a fair assumption, seeing how Hancock reacted when he thought Nate had an interest in the other ghoul. Oh, God. But what if Nate was wrong? What if contrary to his fears, Hancock thinks Nate’s in love with Edward, not him? That’s even worse. Maybe Hancock doesn’t act on his feelings because he doesn’t want to hurt Nate? Doesn’t want to pursue a relationship if that means his best friend is going to suffer for it?

Fahrenheit stares at Nate as if she’s expecting to hear a response. Like there’s something Nate could possibly want to add. Hancock’s probably taking a gander as well, though Nate can’t bear to meet his eyes. “Oh,” he makes himself say, lowering his empty glass and putting it aside. “Well, you can’t fault her for trying.”

Fahrenheit scowls. Her brows knit, stretching the large scar on her temple into an almost smooth line. ”Are you--”

“Fahr!” Hancock yelps, covering the fright with a dry, uncomfortable chuckle. “Ah, look. There goes our guy.” He points at the crowd downstairs, in a vague direction that could mean virtually any place from the lobby to the bar. He jumps from his chair, swallowing the entirety of his wine in one go and slapping the glass back on the table with a thud so blaring it’s explicitly audible over the background noise.

“Latimer?” Fahrenheit studies the view. She doesn’t seem to find what she is looking for, narrowing her eyes first at Hancock, then Nate. “What’s--”

“C’mon,” Hancock urges, “we gotta go.” His body goes slack at the moment Fahrenheit finally relents and pulls herself up.

“Don’t have too much fun without me,” Nate says, chancing for a smile. He can only hope the finished result appears less forced than it feels.

But it seems he didn’t have to bother, Hancock’s looks at the wooden tiles on the floor as though he’s never seen a sight more interesting in his entire life. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, eyes darting to Nate’s, halting before they can truly meet. “I’ll be back in a tic.”

He says that but he doesn’t move, lingering, with both of his hands clutching the back of his chair. There’s a step missing, in their exchange, a part that should be there, but isn’t. A gaping, yawing distance, that was never there before, that kept growing slowly, day by day, and turned into a wide canyon, right before their very eyes.

They’ll probably waste a whole evening trying to figure it out, never reaching a consensus. But Fahrenheit’s not there for that. “You wanted to go,” she pries Hancock hand, tugging him by the cuff with a sharp jerk. “Let’s go then.”

“Y-yeah.”

Nate keeps his gaze fixed firmly on his glass. He listens to the receding footsteps, well after they fade into the busting tumult of chatter. He drinks the wine, finishes his cup, doubles it up, swallows the liquor like water. But it has no taste now. The lights dim, the music begins, the sound of piano and violin he filters out, drowning in his thoughts. He kills his time with a couple of cigarettes, lighting the next one before the previous has dimmed.

He’s getting tipsy, but the light buzz isn’t quite enough to make him stay here any longer. He taps the cigarette on the ashtray, drops the bud into the growing pile inside and takes the stairs, throat tight from smoke, nerves, or a combination of all of the above. He doesn’t get to the entrance, however.

He halts on the last stair, almost in the same spot Hancock’s been an hour or two ago. Their roles now reversed. Hancock stands with his back to the rest of the room, holding a crystal glass of colorless liquor. He fits within the splendor like nobody else, in his sleek suit, surrounded by a crowd of adoring spectators, sipping the words off his lips as though it was nectar. It’s a familiar sight, one Nate used to be a part of.

It’s different, watching it from afar, like a bystander. There is no question, though, that Hancock would beckon him closer, that if he’d only turn around to see Nate here, he would-- And that’s precisely why Nate can’t allow himself to join him.

He cannot make himself leave, either.

“Whiskey, straight,” Nate calls to the bartender, perching on the edge of the barstool and leaning his back against a thick pillar, not quite wide enough to shroud him from the view.

“Make that two.” A handful of caps lands on the counter, next to Nate’s arm. He doesn’t have to count them to know that the amount is enough to cover both of the drinks with a generous tip to spare. “Come here often?”

The voice isn’t familiar, not by far. But the face is; the wave of blond hair and a flash of perfectly even teeth. Without the blue vault suit, he looks just like an ordinary drifter, but there’s a peculiar manner in him that a couple of months living in the Commonwealth couldn’t wash out.

“I would,” Nate drawls, reaching for a glass when the bartender comes with two. “If they could keep it this clean.”

Nate knows where this is going, and he’s not surprised when the vaultie laughs, low and warm, with a dark undertone to it. His eyes drift, half-mast, and, yeah, that’s a come-hitcher look if Nate’s ever seen one. “Why, afraid to get dirty?”

The man’s hand moves as if to take a hold of his drink, but it misses the target by a landslide and falls on Nate’s knee. It lays there only a couple of milliseconds before the guy is tugged by the back of his collar. He stumbles, eyes growing wide first from shock then fear. His face goes almost as pale as his hair.

“Alright, off you go.” Fahrenheit doesn’t need to force the man, he goes willingly, tripping over his feet. She spares him just a single look, to make sure he finds his way out of the room. “You think that’s funny?” She asks, regarding Nate with open disgust, and the switch in her expression throws Nate aback faster than an actual hit would.

“What--”

“You can’t be this stupid,” she speaks much faster than she usually does. Her nostrils flare as she lets out a fuming breath. “I am done, you hear me? I am done handling you with kid-gloves.”

She’s overreacting, that much is clear. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that she hated Nate almost at first sight. She was never overly enthusiastic about Nate’s friendship with Hancock, but to say that _she_ was the one walking on eggshells? Yeah, as if.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“ _You_ are my problem.”

Over Fahrenheit’s shoulder, Nate’s eyes, as if on their own accord, shift to Hancock, expecting if not an explanation then a reaction of some sort, but the ghoul is steadfastly looking away, continuing his conversation with Latimer senior, though his body is a little too stiff for him to pretend that nothing is amiss.

“What do you think you 're doing, rubbing it in his face like that?” Fahrenheit brings Nate’s back, inclining her head in a purposeful way that makes it clear whom she’s talking about. Her tone is so mocking it brings a flush of pure embarrassment to Nate’s face. ”Give him a fucking break.”

There's an uneasy beat of silence and oddly enough, Nate is the one who breaks it. A combination of frustration and humiliation takes the will to fight out of him. “Yeah,” he agrees, rising from his seat. Maybe that’s what he needed, the resolve he sought, to take the final step, open the door and exit the wreathed building. And he got more than he bargained for. “Okay.”

Fahrenheit flinches, and Nate can’t even take pleasure in the gesture because he’s too shaken, too hurt to care. He’s out of the door and half-way down the street before it downs on him. She’s right. Nate cannot expect Hancock to always be there for him. The clear air stabs him like a needle, crushing his lungs in an iron fist. The pain is nothing to the crumbling heartache he’s been nursing steadily over the months.

Numbly, he follows the well-known road home, letting the string of incandescent light bulbs guide his way. It’s a new development, the decor, the well-lit, soon-to-be-opened apartment building placed vis-à-vis the Memory Den, where McCready decided to rent a flat to bring his son to live in. He changed his mind pretty quickly. No wonder; the city starts to look like something more than a crack house. More like home. Shame then, Nate was so late to catch on.

When he pushes the door open, the freshly-oiled metal goes smoothly, without a hitch. That small detail unnerves him further, makes his blood boil. “Codsworth, we’re leaving,” he interrupts the robot’s greeting, ripping his trusty duffel bag off the hook.

“Leaving! But-- But, Sir--”

“I said we’re leaving, end of discussion!”

He hates to be crass, but he can’t stand to waste any more time explaining everything to Codsworth. Besides, what could he say? _We’re leaving because I can’t deal with having Hancock always at the arm’s reach but never closer? Because I am a fucking coward?_ No, he can’t go on like this.

He rushes to the basement, starts to throw his clothes into his bag without folding, just pushing and pushing them inside, movements so damn automatic he can nearly pretend he’s a million miles and 200 years away, packing for a trip back home from the service. He packs the necessities, can’t afford to bring shit that’s only going to slow him down. Not like it fucking matters though, he had to fit his whole life into a locker room once, he can do it again, no problem.

He yanks a drawer open, lets it fall off the hinges, missing the silent sound of the entrance door upstairs opening again, with much more vigor than before. The door slaps against the wall, the prolonged slam interrupted by Codsworth’s drawn out, “mister Mayor,” then quick, heavy footsteps, and finally, Nate’s own name.

“Nate--”

The duffel bag slides through Nate’s hands. Delayed, he lifts his head, clenching his fingers around nothing but air.

Hancock’s standing in the doorway, out of breath, his read coat gone from his shoulders, abandoned. “I ain’t sure what she’s said to ya, but--” He tries to push as many words out as he possibly can in a second, speaking with a jerky, almost incoherent haste. “Look, I am sorry, please, can’t we--”

He looks mildly crestfallen, and it’s worse than a sucker-punch right in the jaw. “Fuck, no, don’t apologize.” Nate protests, meaning to reassure but the words seize his tongue and break in the back of his throat. “It’s my fault.”

“No, sunshine, you--”

Nate cuts off with a frustrated noise. “God, you don’t understand!” It burst out of him, the pent-up frustration demanding an outlet. “It is! “He yells and almost manages to keep the flitting edge of despair out of his voice. ”I went and fucking fallen for you, and you never asked for all this bullshit, you shouldn’t have to deal with--”

“Whoah, whoah, whoah, wait. Again. What’d you just say?”

“That you shouldn’t apologize--”

“The other bit.”

The other-- Oh. Fuck.

The truth already out and there’s nothing Nate can do than repeat it. “That I love you?”

He watches Hancock’s face as it slackens, changing from pure shock to a puzzled, strangely heartbreaking kind of disbelief. “Since when?”

“Since forever, I don’t know! It just happened, okay?”

It’s a lie, and at the same time, it isn’t. Nate knows the exact moment he realized he loved Hancock, down to the time it fell on him like a ton of brick, right in the middle of Hancock’s room, with Nate’s shoulder pressed squarely into Hancock’s. How long did it creep on him, he’s uncertain, but it caught up to him, on a quiet, unremarkable evening, filled with the heavy stench of Jet and the wild gallop of his heart. And nothing was the same after that, nothing ever could.

Before Nate can scrounge together a more adequate explanation, plead for mercy or understanding, Hancock moves. He steps forward, hand lifting to fist the front of Nate’s shirt. For a second, Nate’s sure Hancock wants to punch him, shake him or, or anything, really, but he is proven wrong when Hancock goes for his mouth instead.

There’s only a flash of white-hot desire in his eyes, and Nate finds himself pressed firmly against the wall, the edge of a shelf biting painfully into his hip. It’s quick, barely a kiss, just a short, sharp bite without teeth, before Hancock falters. He shifts, but not all the way like he can’t bring himself to let go entirely. “Fuck,” he mutters, bringing a hand to his face. His fingers linger over his lips in an unconscious gesture. “What’d she say to you?”

“What?” Nate gulps down the air. He can barely think past the press of Hancock’s body against his, the lingering scent of Hancock’s clothes.

"Fahr,” Hancock lets out a low huff of noise, his tone caught between anger and resignation. “Did she, dunno, told ya to do that, or--”

“She told me to leave.”

And that’s obviously as far from what Hancock anticipated to hear as it can get, if the startled expression can be any indication. His hand falls limply to his side as he gapes. “She did what?”

Nate gives a small, one-armed shrug, muscles tight and rigid. They just kissed, they-- “N-not in so many words,” he breathes out, still dizzy from the taste of Hancock’s on his lips; the liquor and ash. “She strongly suggested I should... leave you alone.”

“Oh.” Hancock swallows. He opens his mouth, but not much comes out, just another not-quite gasp. He blinks, uncertain to where he should put his eyes. He decides finally to rest them on Nate’s face, and God only knows what does he see in here; the desperation, the longing? “Oh, shit. You were serious.” His jaw hangs open for a sold second before he stammers, high and desperate, “say that again.”

Nate’s stumped. They both are, it seems, finally sharing the same ground, the same footing. “I love you,” he whispers, and this time it’s a deliberate decision, intentional.

Hancock shivers. When he speaks is very quiet, his eyes are hooded and dark. “What changed?”

“Changed?”

“Well, I told ya I loved you, that day at the Third Rail.” Hancock delivers the news thinly, in a way one would talk about the weather, blandly and detached. “After we put that table to good use and you... guess you were tryin’ to let me down gently.” The grimace that splits his features is distinctly pained, harsh, even if it lasts no more than a moment. “And I thought, okay, makes sense, you wanted to try goin’ ghoul or you just wanted a one-off, either way, it was more than I expected, more than I--”

“John.” There’s nothing more Nate’d love to do than listen to Hancock talk, but he can’t not interrupt, not when it seems like there was a huge fucking misunderstanding somewhere along the line. “I can barely remember how I got there in the first place. I was drunk off my ass and tripping on pills.”

“Nah, you weren’t.” Hancock freezes, looking back at Nate with obvious apprehension and more than a little lurking hurt. “You looked fucking lucid--”

“You think if I’d remember that you said you loved me I’d be in this fucking mess in the first place?!”

The unexpected outburst startles Hancock enough that any leftover hurt, any confusion clears right out of his face. “Oh, wow. So, what? You though, what--”

“I don’t know I panicked!” Just as he did at Rexford, his fight or flee response took hold of him, unpredictable, swinging like a pendulum. Idiotic really, now that he thinks of it. “God.” He slumps against the wall, breathing in a way that has nothing to do with needing air. “You really didn’t know? It was so obvious! I was over you all the time and--”

“You kiddin’? Obvious my ass. You were cool like a glacier. _I_ was fucking obvious. Everyone knew.”

“I didn’t! You’re so nice all the time--”

“Yeah, to you. Because I am in love with you.”

Well. There it is. No way to misinterpret _that_. “I-- Me too.”

Hancock laughs, a light, breathy sound. “Yeah? Good to know.’” He licks his lips, suddenly nervous, or perhaps excited. Maybe both. “Can I kiss you again?”

Nate snorts, grabbing the lapels of Hancock’s jacket in two fists and dragging him closer until there’s nothing between them. “Yeah, you--”

The rest of whatever Nate might have wanted to say is swallowed up when Hancock courses forward, single-minded and impatient. He kisses the same way he talks, the same way moves, hard and desperate as though it would almost be gentle if he wasn’t expecting to be pushed away at any moment. His fingers are buried in Nate’s hair, cupping his head as he pulls a moan after a moan out of Nate’s lips, gobbles them down.

“I can't fucking believe,” Hancock chuckles, ridiculously tender when they break off for air. His palms are scorching and rough against Nate’s cheeks. Perfect. “This is too good to be true.”

Not missing a bit, Nate mumbles against his Hancock’s lips, feeling higher than he ever did on any chem. “You’re too good to be true.”

“Christ, sunshine.”

Bashful, like he rarely is, Hancock’s darts his gaze to Nate’s lips and he gulps, swallowing thickly, before brushing their mouths together again, trying and failing to keep the heat out the kiss, to make it slow and sweet. But he wants more, they both do. Nate feels the press of Hancock’s cock against his own, the way his hips buckle almost involuntary, the slick ruffle of cashmere loud in the silence of the basement.

It’s too much. And Nate wants to rush right into it. They were past the point of ‘taking it slow,’ for a couple of weeks anyway. He sinks to his knees, a bit too quickly, the rough concrete bruises his skin but he couldn’t care less about any discomfort at the moment. “I am going to blow you now,” he half asks, half announces, eyes steady on Hancock, eager. “Alright?”

Hancock swears, incoherent, then bobs his head up and down like a hula girl toy Nate bough for the dashboard of his first car a lifetime ago. “Fucking hell,” he wines, low in his throat, threading his shaking fingers through the strands of Nate’s hair, brushing the stray locks behind his ear, all gentle. "You don’t have to--”

“I want to.”

And that shuts Hancock up like a charm. His fingers dig into Nate’s skull as Nate spreads his palms on Hancock's thighs, runs them up the inseam of his dress pants. The outline of Hancock’s dick, hard and thick, is enough to make Nate’s mouth water and he doesn’t wait long at all to lick a wide stripe up the base, over the soft, sleek material, getting soaked by a mix of pre-come and saliva.

Hancock groans, rocking his hips forward, swearing again when Nate sucks at the tip, running his tongue over the slit then tracing the vein down to the base. He works the ghoul almost lazily, licking and teasing, not hard enough for Hancock’s to get much satisfaction from it, just enough for a distraction, reveling in the sound of Hancock panting, breathing hot and harsh. He makes a quick work of the zipper, shoving his fingers under the waistband and yanking both Hancock’s trousers and pants down at once. He gives Hancock no time to prepare, taking the head in his mouth and sucking.

“Oh, fuck!” Hancock’s fingers spasm. He watches, eyes wide and abysmal, follows Nate’s parted lips sliding halfway down the length of dick. “That's it. Take it all in...”

Nate moans around the pulsing cock, sliding it in and out of, choking on the heady taste of pre-come, thick and bitter and so, so good. His own dick throbs painfully inside his pants, and he presses a hand between his legs rubbing himself in time with Hancock’s thrusts. Hancock’s hips buckle at the sight, and it’s apparently all it takes, because next thing he’s pushing his length against the back of Nate's throat without warning, gasping when Nate just takes him, down to the base and swallows, throat vibrating against an encouraging hum.

Hancock sags. His knees buckle and he lands on the ground, gracelessly. “Come here,” he pleads, frenzied and urgent, reaching for Nate’s waist and tugging him by the belt loops, dislodging Nate’s hand and replacing it with his own.

He seeks the bulge in Nate’s pants and squeezes, palming him roughly a few times until he’s coming in his pants with a guttural, desperate sound Hancock catches in his lips, tasting himself of Nate’s tongue, drowning in a strong mix of aged wine and release.

“Damn, look at you,” he raps, completely wrecked, touching the corner of Nate’s mouth reverently, wet with spit and come. “I still ain’t sure it’s not a dream.”

“It’s not,” Nate huffs, sounding as debauched as he undoubtedly looks. He drops his forehead down onto Hancock’s shoulder, hides his face in the crook of his neck and breathes, deliriously happy.

“You sure?”

“I am sure.”

Hancock hums, planting a quick on Nate’s temple, the closest part of him he can reach without moving. “Say, how did I get this lucky?” The fingers still on Nate’s crotch tightens, restless, greedy. Hancock doesn’t move, his hand is just resting there, radiating heat, but Nate can feel himself harden again. “And you in this fucking suit. Christ, I thought I was gonna die.”

“Well, the night is still young.”

“Oh?” With a practiced move, Hancock’s pulls the zipper on Nate’s trousers with one hand and slips it inside to circle his fingers around Nate’s girth, slick with sweat and cooling-off semen.

“Wait,” Nate chokes out, while he still has the presence of mind to ask questions. “Does that mean Fahrenheit is gonna stop giving me the evil eye?”

Hancock laughs. It bursts out of him like he can't control his reaction. “Yeah, love,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth. “I’ll set her straight.”


End file.
